We Won't Ever Give Up
by CalPal052699
Summary: 2014 Ficathon entry. After seeing her fiance's car afire in a ditch, Kate is determined to bring him home, no matter what it takes. However, with her lead suspect being a serial killer who has a history of watching her and the circumstances keeping her off the field, she must depend on her friends, her boss and their leads, her only chance to bring Castle back. 6x23 post-ep.
1. Chapter 1

_**We Won't Ever Give Up**_

* * *

Her hands shake like the flames consuming her fiance's car, violently and completely out of her control. She couldn't stop them if she tried, if she focused intently on keeping them still. As if trying to repeat the actions of the fire playing in her mind as her eyes remain focused on it, her hands shake, nerves and fear and pain and grief making her nerves act all on their own, making her whole body quiver and threaten to fall under the weight suddenly returning to her shoulders.

For years, she's held this weight. It's the weight of grief, constantly dragging her down. It's the weight that used to make tears spring to her eyes at random moments of the day, a simple 'school crossing' sign sending the tears streaming down her face. It's the weight that used to make her struggle for every breath, made her fight to want to breathe any longer. It's this weight that she almost crumbled under, that sent her dad to the bottom of the bottle, that almost made her take her own life on a few occasions.

This weight, she's only just lightened it immensely. Two weeks ago, she slapped handcuffs on Bracken's wrists and escorted him into a police car with millions of people watching. Two weeks ago, the weight went from a blue whale to a Great Dane—because her mom is still gone, and she will forever grieve for her, but having justice for her makes it a lot easier. Two weeks ago, she slipped her mom's ring off the chain she barely ever went more than eight hours without and set it down in the jewelry box with her parents' picture slipped into the lid, ready to take what was once a lifeline, but became a noose over time, a promise that was so consuming it choked her, and she put it away so she could breathe again.

And now...now her _fiance _might be dead, and she might have to take the chain back out a slip a new, different ring onto it, his ring, because she'll have to find justice for him. Richard Castle doesn't just drive into a ditch. So, if he's dead, afire in that car, there's no way this was some random accident, swerving to avoid an animal or a sudden turn taking him by surprise. If Castle's dead, this is a murder, and that she knows. They have too many enemies, too many people that want them dead, for this to be some random, freak event. He promised her always, and he wouldn't ever give that up by being a stupid, reckless driver. Of that, she's almost a hundred percent sure.

The tears are rolling down her cheeks now as it hits her like lightning that he might be dead. That she might never, ever see his face again. Not even laying on the morgue's table, like so many others get to. Not in a casket—_Caskett, _she clearly remembers the day he named them that—like she got to see her mother, the stab wounds covered, her face as beautiful as ever. No. Because now, if he's dead, he's been burned, _cooked,_ to an ugly, black crisp, unrecognizable and certainly not the man she loves.

She feels her knees quiver beneath her at the thought of him, her _almost_-husband, dead, burnt and lost in a pile of metal, a death trap. A new set of sirens sounds suddenly in the background, loud and intruding on her moment of grief, a honking horn that cuts through her thoughts. Loud like a gunshot that sounds at a crime scene before they get there, that takes the victim's life in the blink of an eye, it cuts through everything she's holding onto, the little self control that's allowed her to hold herself upright.

Before she can really process anything, she's on the ground, her knees screaming in protest as they come in contact with the hard, black pavement beneath them. Her hands fall in front of her, the small percentage of her weight not resting on the heels of her feet resting on the heels of her palms instead. The white dress, the tulle and lace so beautiful and intricate yet simple and traditional all the same. the gown that once belonged to her mother crushed between her palms and the filthy ground. And only for a split second does she feel bad for ruining the gorgeous gown that once belonged to her mother. She's too distracted by the waving of the flames to really care about the delicate material being fisted between her fingers.

This is not right. Their special day was supposed to be just that: special, magical even. And for someone who doesn't believe in magic or perfection, just the fact that she thought so highly of the now _non_-wedding is saying a lot. But Castle—oh, _Castle_—has taught her to believe, has held her hand through all this and showed her that magic can exist, that _they _are magical. And she believed him.

This isn't magic, though. This is far from magic. A flame is far from magic, even though it may look like it could be magical. A flame can be mesmerizing. She's gotten lost in them herself, sitting in his arms in front of the fireplace in his loft. A flame can do incredible things, can have incredible effects on the human body. Flames have had that very effect on her, scattered across the bedroom and lit, the dim lighting making the whole room flicker with their uneven glow. But now, now she sees flames from a different perspective, completely different. This isn't the magic of the fire at the tip of a birthday candle flickering wildly in a gentle breeze. And this isn't the magic of a campfire as it waves from it's pit, it's uncontrolled heat turning marshmallows a beautiful golden brown.

Right now—as the brightness of the flames threaten to blind her, the horrifying image of them threatening to be the only thing she sees for weeks, months even, every single time she closes her eyes—now, she sees the flame for what it really is. It's hot, destructive and deadly. Fueled by the oxygen that she's desperately trying to gasp in, they could very well of taken her fiance from her, the same way they almost took Ryan and Esposito about five months back. Now, they're the one thing she wishes she'll never, ever have to see again.

A gush of water sounds suddenly from behind her, the powerful, white jet of water hitting the flames, cutting through the petrifying image before her, making her suddenly blink, moistening her burning eyes. She can hear a man screaming, loud and clear. And another one blows a whistle as he attempts to direct traffic down the usually rather empty highway, blocked by the intrusion on the right lane. She tunes all the noises out, though, as she watches the spot where the white of water meets the orange of flames, a sharp contrast that she wishes would just go away. She just wants the fire to be put out.

If he's in the car, he's already dead. Of that, she is more than sure. Nobody survives a fire like that, so small, so hot and so limited. By now, anyone and anything that's not made of metal has burned to a crisp, has become a large pile of black ash. Except for him. If he's in there, the body is probably still at least somewhat intact. She's seen enough dead bodies, enough burnt ones, to know that it takes a lot to completely incinerate a human body, especially the skeleton.

She tries desperately to push those images back, images of his body turned to ash, only his bones remaining in the metal frame of the car, images of a body being incinerated in the fire that consumes his car, the flames flashing before her eyes, illuminating the white of bones like the intro to an extremely creepy horror movie, or maybe the end scene. But the images stay, when she keeps her eyes open various bones flash in the flames that are visibly shrinking under the effect of the water. When she closes them, the images are much, much worse, more gruesome, based on the crime scenes she's been to...and the ones she's only ever heard about.

A sob slips from her between her lips, strangled in a her throat and finally released. Her eyes refocus on the spot where white meets orange, where water meets fire. She focusses on that, the tears streaming down her cheeks as she watches all too intently, yet somehow, she doesn't feel like she's watching closely enough. And the tears fall from her eyes and roll down her cheeks, some continuing their journey as they roll down her chin and the sharp lines of her neck, others falling down onto the white gown beneath her. Her arms continue to quiver under her weight, fisted fingers struggling to hold her up as the sheer fear and pain of this moment renders her a puddle of emotion, a pile of shaking limbs on the rough road beneath her knees.

A sudden hand on her shoulder makes her jump—even though she's not sure whether it's just been placed there, or if it's been there the whole time and she's only now realizing it. The fingers press the intricate, scratchy lace that covers her shoulder more firmly into her skin, but she doesn't really care. It's counteracting the numbness that has apparently taken over her, and is reminding her that there's more around her than the car, the fire, the water.

"Oh...Kate," says Lanie from behind her, words soft and sympathetic. Like a switch has been flipped at the sound of her own name, her elbows give out and her weight falls onto her forearms, like a messed up attempt at the child's pose. Her fingers form even tighter fists around the thick skirt of her dress, stained with dirt and ash, no longer white like it used to be, no longer a souvenir from a beautiful day, but one from a day gone totally wrong. It's no longer elegant and simple, beautiful like the love that she and Castle share, but is now covered in layers of dirt and ash and tears and sweat, the evidence of the obstacles they've avoided and overcome, the ones yet to come.

Her gaze tears from the fire in the ditch, slowly being put out by a strong, constant flow of water, it's strength diminishing, it's destructiveness already having done it's job. She looks down instead, at the swirls of black and beige and the slight hints of yellow where the sweat from her clammy palms has made stains. Darkened spots mark the areas where her tears have fallen, wet the material with their saltiness, the taste unpleasant, the sight even worse. The dress is ruined, of that she is sure. No one will wear it again. She wants to take it off.

This dress...her mother wore it on the happiest day of her life. But as the fire burns before her, the heat radiating off of it and warming her tear-stained cheeks and burning eyes, the happy memories of her parents' joyful day are forgotten, replaced. Now, the dress will no longer remind her of her parents' magical day, the day they embarked on a lifetime together, a stepping stone in the journey that brought her life, the one that taught her that love is real, no matter how cruelly it can be ripped away. Now, the dress is darkened, both literally and figuratively, by her day gone wrong. The dress that was once white, a symbol of purity and love, is now stained in black and brown, a symbol of pain, fear and grief.

Lanie's hand squeezes her shoulder, and she hears the rustling of material as she kneels down next to her, the white fabric being stained even more as her weight presses it down against the pavement. She leans into her friend's touch, the hand that's helped her through so much, the hand that's part of the reason she was supposed to be married today. It's the hand of the person that has guided her into her lover's arms, that has taught her lessons that hold wisdom someone who has never been in a committed relationship shouldn't have. Lanie helped get her to this moment, and right now she doesn't know if she's still supposed to be grateful, like she has been for the past two years, or not.

"Kate…" her name slices through the air again, through the quietness of the world around her as she gets lost in her thoughts. Lanie's voice is soft and soothing, yet holds pain and sadness that she can't quite hold back. It almost reminds her of the way she was with her dad back when he was an alcoholic, trying to convince him everything would be okay even when she didn't quite believe that herself. She knows that tone. She's used it way to many times.

"He can't be dead, Lanie!" It's practically a shout, yet is ragged and chocked on, strangled and rough and not very convincing at all. She's not even sure she believes it herself. That fire was raging—even though now, when she looks up, she sees that it's almost completely put out—and she doesn't know how long the car was burning in the ditch before she got here. If he was in the car when the fire lit, he's dead now. If he's still in the car, it's as a charred corpse. She just doesn't want to believe he's in the car.

"He might not be, Kate," she whispers, her hand falling from her shoulder to settle over the lace that covers her back, her shoulder gaining a little relief from the scratchiness on the intricate pattern, her back pressing into it as she heaves for every breath. The tears have almost stopped, her eyes practically dry from the ones already shed and her refusal to close them, even to blink, more than absolutely necessary.

The images that play behind her closes eyelids, that flash as if someone flicked a flashlight over them only to plunge them back into darkness before she could fully comprehend them, scare her more than real life does right now. And that says a lot, considering her fiance's car is a black crisp in a ditch—the fire is finally gone and men are running into the ditch to check the damage, to see if someone's in it. She can't watch, and tilts her head downwards again, staring down at the stained white material as she waits to here a loud voice boom through their surroundings, echo in her head, haunt her for days, weeks, months...possibly years to come.

When it does, it has her scrambling to her knees, her eyes welling with a new round of tears, the mistake of closing them mixed with the newfound information from the cop down in the ditch. The salty liquid falls from her eyes before she even has the chance to think of holding it back, and she feels the acid rising up her throat as waves of nausea hit the walls of her stomach, like waves that wash up and hit the sides on concrete bridges with a powerful crash. They're uncontrollable, like the way she loses her lunch on the pavement nearby, the disgusting mixture of acid and half-digested food barely missing the material of her gown, leaving a horrible taste in her mouth, one to accompany this horrible memory.

_There's a body._


	2. Chapter 2

_**We Won't Ever Give Up**_

* * *

Her arms are still weak and quivering, even worse now, shaking like leaves, like her hands had been earlier, threatening to give out the moment something happens or if she tries to move or if someone talks to her. She hates feeling so weak and shaky, it brings her back to the days, the months and the years after her mom's death, lost in the dark hell hole they call grief, the light at the end of the tunnel flickering like a birthday candle, almost being blown out on multiple occasions. It brings her back to the days when she could do nothing but curl up in a blanket and cry, when she didn't eat nor sleep nor move a muscle because the pain was so bad, the weight on her shoulders was so heavy that she could barely move, barely stand on her own two feet. She doesn't want to go back.

But this newfound information, step one in confirming her biggest fear, has her already falling backwards into a pit that looks bottomless, the light fading quickly, the weight of mourning someone coming back in full force, like she never thought it would, like she wished it never would. There's a body in the car. Or at least, it was in the car. She doesn't really know what they're doing with it now. She doesn't want to look up and find out. She doesn't want to risk seeing him as a charred corpse, black and half-incinerated like the images in her mind show her. If she has to go the rest of her life without seeing him, she wants the memory of the last time she saw him to be of him, blue eyes shining, a smile on his face like the way he was when they said goodbye in New York this morning, preparing for their wedding.

Her weak arms barely manage to push her back onto her heels, kneeling on the material of her gown, the tulle like a cushion between her sensitive skin and the rough pavement that has already left scrapes on it. The thin netting is digging into the scraped skin and making it burn, but she can barely focus on that. The pain is like relief, somehow, reminding her that she's still alive, and that if she's still alive after everything she's been through, who's to say that he might not be out there _somewhere_, alive as well?

Her vision is still blurred by the tears welled in her eyes, falling as quickly as new ones are formed, she stares off into the distance. She can't look at the car, the hunk of metal, the possible deathtrap. It brings pictures of him burning to death to her mind, makes her see them like hallucinations. Looking down means looking at the food her stomach just brought up, and just the thought of it makes the waves of nausea return and whatever's left in her stomach threaten to make a reappearance. Looking around the scene means her eyes might land on the...body...which is the last thing she wants to see right now. So she stares off into the distance, at the trees on the other side of the ditch, standing tall, proud and strong as if oblivious to the seen below them. She wishes she could be oblivious.

She watches as a bird flies out of the forest, appearing in the clear blue sky, dark as a silhouette, dark as ash, but alive and free and happy in nature, soaring across the sky. The bird is strong and happy, going to get food or simply to fly around. Meanwhile, she is stuck on the ground, kneeling there weakly, ruining her dress, her knees burning because of it, grieving her fiance...even though she still hopes he's not dead. The bird is strong. The bird is happy. The bird is free. The bird represents everything she wishes she could be, happy and oblivious to real pain, but it's too late for that. She's already experienced too much pain to not know what it is, she's seen too much, been through too much to be oblivious. She's made too many enemies to ever be free, and when she's not looking over her shoulder, she's kept captive in her own mind. And then there's days like today, where she feels like she's being held captive, miserably living her own life.

She can't help but think that, as soon as she's happy, something has to go and try to take that away. And way too many times have the forces of people stronger, braver and more powerful than her succeeded. They ruin the happiest days of her life, make the hard ones harder, and the hardest ones almost impossible to get through. Today, they've seemingly skipped hard, harder and hardest, and she finds herself wanting to curl up in a ball and wish that this is all some nightmare, even though she knows it isn't.

That thought has her trying to get away from the side of the road, away from the woods where the animals are happy and free and everything she isn't right now. Her hands press painfully hard to the rough pavement of the road, the texture leaving imprints on her palms, uneven and red and ugly. Her fingers fight the urge to once again curl into fists as they flatten against the ground, fingers aching as the strain against the hard black highway beneath them. Tears fall from her cheeks as she looks down, one landing on the back of her left hand—making her eyes land briefly on her shimmering engagement ring, from which she looks away as quickly as possible. Her right arm is weak and shaky, still, yet she somehow manages to bring her left hand up to wipe the tears from her eyes and face, smearing them across her skin, bringing makeup with them. When her hand falls back to the ground, just before her right arm was about to give out, the back of her hand is covered in a mix of salty tears and black mascara. She keeps focussing on that as she tries to push herself up to her feet.

She doesn't really manage. Her legs are quivering too much to balance on her heel, and even with one knee still on the ground, it sends her falling back, expecting to land on her ass. She doesn't. A strong pair of hands catch her shoulders, holding her in position on one knee on the edge of the highway. The position sends her into a panic and she fumbles on shaking legs to stand—the pose men traditionally use to propose hits too close to home right now as she's stuck between grief, denial and determination to prove that her own fiance is alive. The hands on her shoulders help pull her up to her feet, holds her upright as she kicks off her high heels. She can barely stand on her own two feet, stilettos aren't really an option right now.

Finally standing again, she reaches up to wipe away her tears again, closing her eyes briefly—but not briefly enough—before opening them again. In front of her stands Ryan, blue eyes wide with worry, filled with sympathy just like Lanie's voice had been. The sight of her friend brings her to the realization that the strong hands holding her upright very likely belong to Esposito, and he's probably just as worried as Ryan and Lanie are. She feels more tears come to her eyes as he reaches out and sets his hand on her arm, just over the crook of her elbow and she half expects herself to fall into him as her whole body starts shaking again.

Kate Beckett hates knowing people feel bad for her or a worried about her. She never liked being looked at as weak, and hated feeling weak even more. Seeing sympathy in people's eyes always reminds her that she's letting them see a vulnerable side of her—not that she needs any reminding of that right now. As a cop, allowing people to see your most vulnerable side can be the difference between life and death. With the wall up around her, vulnerability was something she was expertly able to hide. With Castle, vulnerability is something she no longer feels the need to hide, it's something he brings out of her like no man, no person ever has.

Ryan motions to the side with a jerk of his head, his hand squeezing her elbow. She doesn't want to turn and see. She's not sure she wants to know what's going on around her, really. She doesn't want to see the charred body of...someone. She doesn't want to see other cops or the fire fighters or the car that's now a pile of crushed, possibly somewhat melted metal and ash. She doesn't even want to see Martha and Alexis, dreads having to talk to them, because they're grieving, too. And this could very well be her fault, Alexis could blame her, Martha could blame her...and if they blame her, she'll blame herself. And she's not quite ready to face that yet.

"It's okay, Kate. It's just Lanie," he says softly. She still doesn't turn. Seeing Lanie would be completely harmless, yes, but seeing the things around her might not be. So she just nods in acknowledgement to his statement. "She's, uh…getting them to send the body to her morgue," she nods, his face blurring even more as more tears well in her eyes, just hearing of the body which may or may not be that of her fiance. "Kate, if that's Castle, she'll find out. If it's not, she'll find out," he says even more softly than before, as if careful to keep her from breaking at the seams all over again, to keep her from collapsing. The tightening of his grasp on her arm confirms that for her.

Instead of falling apart, though, she manages to nod, even as the tears continue to roll down her cheeks. Ryan's holding her left arm, so she reaches up with her right and wipes them away quickly with the back of her hand. If Lanie's checking dental records, that means that the man that was in the car might not be Castle, might not be her fiance. The detective part of her hates that they might have a murder on their hands—because if it's someone else in Castle's car, this is definitely not just a car crash. The fiancee part of her is doing an internal happy dance because there's still hope, still a chance, however small it may be. They've beaten the odds enough time to do it again, right?

* * *

She settles in the passenger seat of Esposito's car, her dress stuffed inside as well and surrounding her still bare feet, the tulle digging into the scrapes that still mark her knees. She wouldn't be surprised to find blood stains on the inside of the skirt when she finally takes the dress off later...as soon as possible, really. She wants to get out of the dress the first chance she has, knows she will probably take it off in a stall of the precinct bathroom to change into the backup outfit she always has at the precinct. She just wants the now ruined reminder of the wedding that did not happen out of her sight...forever if she has it her way.

Her elbow is propped up against the car's door, her arm finally still and strong enough to support her head as she rests her cheek against the back of her hand, her thumb flicking back and forth over the skin covering the highest part of her cheekbone, flicking the earring Martha gave her. Her other hand sits in her lap, her thumb twirling her engagement ring around her middle finger—a bittersweet action that leaves her fighting back tears because _he _gave it to her, but it's also the only thing from him that she has right now, and it keeps her holding onto hope that he's not gone forever. The car's floor is covered in sand that's finding it's way between her toes as she curls them into the mat below them, her shoes somewhere in the backseat with Ryan.

From this angle, the only thing she really sees is what's visible from her window. Ryan and Esposito are oddly, overly quiet, and she's thankful for that. Their voices would bring unwelcome thoughts, unwelcome theories and unwelcome memories. So she stares out the window, can feel eyes on her every now and then but doesn't turn to see who they below to, doesn't want to see the worry filled look in them. The trees are simpler to look at, different hues of green as different species and ages of trees come in and out of her sight line, so quickly she barely processes them. Eventually, the different shades just fade into an endless wall of green as she continues to stare, her mind coming up with unwelcome thoughts all on it's own.

The trees bring her back to a forest, all too familiar: the one behind her father's cabin. It used to hold such happy memories, days spent their in the hot summer sun, the lake behind it serving as the perfect place to swim, the crickets surrounding it serving as the perfect music and the fireflies serving as the perfect prey, and then the perfect nightlight. When her mom died, her dad went up there a lot more—she later realized that it was so he could drink until he passed out without her being there to see it, which made her pretty much stop going altogether.

She only went up to the cabin a small handful of times in between the day she found him passed out on the living room floor and those long, lonely months a little less than three years ago now. She had never really liked going up there after her mom died, images of a happy little girl playing with her mother, of a lonely, grieving man passed out on the floor haunted her. When she first went there on her journey to recovery, she was asleep half the time, so the images barely had time to come to mind. By the time they did, the pain of her real life at the time—the confusion, the recovery, the loneliness and the fear—had her preoccupied, and it stayed that way for the whole three months she was out there.

Though the quietness of the woods had helped her make sense of her thoughts, the seclusion of the cabin also gave her the chance to build up a wall without anyone working against her at the time. The forest surrounding it gave her the opportunity to build up physical strength on walks and hikes and even short runs, the animals surrounding her slowly preparing for the winter ahead. She had been at the cabin for winter 2011-2012's first snowfall, and can still picture the footprints of small rodents that had dotted the white fluff. It brought back some happy memories, even though she was recovering from one of the hardest things in her life. It allowed her to see the beauty in the cabin again, and no longer just feel the loss of the joy it once held.

She rarely goes back, though. She went alone on the anniversary of her shooting, shortly after she and Castle had gotten together, and had made herself a promise to one day bring him up there with her, to tell him about her mother teaching her to swim and her father helping her catch fireflies. She'd imagined him there with her, holding her hand as she led them through the woods, hands holding her hips as she wrapped her legs around him as they swam in the lake. She could even picture just sitting on the ground between his spread legs, resting her back against his chest, their wedding bands coming in contact as their joined hands rest over her soon to no longer be flat stomach.

She realizes now, as she blinks and turns the wall of endless green back into a row of trees, rows behind them creating a forest large and deep, that she has never brought him up there at all. It's not even that she never thought about it, but more that she never really knew how to mention the fantasies she's had of them up there, alone and together and enjoying how simple life can truly be when you're not the target of a megalomaniac or a serial killer. She's never told him about how she wants to make new memories up there, wants him to hold her close as they watch the stars together, as he makes her wish a shooting one even though he knows she doesn't believe in stuff like that—and yet, just for him she'd make a wish anyway.

Her vision blurs as new tears spring to her eyes at the realization that she might never get the chance to do these things, to teach their children to swim in the very lake where she learned, to give them a nightlight of fireflies. He might be dead. She might never be able to tell him when he's going to be a dad again, or grasp his hand at some undetermined point in the future and tell him she's in labor. She might never even get the chance to call him her husband—well, not for real at least...they did once for an undercover operation. She might never get to tell him how much she truly wanted with him, how she envisioned their future. She might never get the chance to make those dreams—any of them—a reality.

She tears her gaze off the trees on the side of the road, images of the cabin no longer welcome, either. She doesn't want to picture the future she wants with him when she doesn't even know if he's alive. It feels wrong. It feels to wishful, too out of reach right now. But looking at the road in front of her brings images of what might of been his final moments, driving to their now _non_-wedding. She doesn't want to picture that at all, either. Looking down brings into view her engagement ring, and as much as twirling it around her finger makes her feel connected to him in some crazy way, actually looking at it reminds her that it might never be joined by an actual wedding band. And closing her eyes brings back a crazy mixture of images, the fire that had consumed his care mixing with the cabin and images of their children, creating a whole new nightmare she can't even begin to face.

So she doesn't even try to. She turns her head and looks at Esposito the whole time, watches his hands as he drives them back to the city, because that doesn't bring on anything, and it's the happiest she'll be right now. She's accepted that by now. Things won't get better right away, they might get worse, they could very well return to the living hell hole she was stuck in right after her mother's death. She might be forced to grieve for someone she loved more than anyone all over again, and she's not sure she can handle it.

She chooses to try and ignore it the best she can.


	3. Chapter 3

_**We Won't Ever Give Up**_

* * *

She's shaking like a leaf again by the time they reach the Twelfth Precinct. Focusing on Esposito's hands for an hour hadn't been a good option, and she had spent half the drive imagining what he might of been thinking or feeling right after he hung up—if he's dead, those would've been his final minutes on earth, after all. She must of looked pitiful, too, because Esposito had reached over and held her arm for the second half of the drive, making promises he could not keep like: it would all be okay, they would figure out what was going on. She had snapped at him for it, and then backed away, tried to curl up in a ball but the dress had prevented her from doing so. And so she had spent the rest of the ride staring straight ahead, trying to keep images out of her mind, trying to remain emotionless...and failing miserably. Instead, she had cried and shook and Ryan and Espo had tried to comfort her but it was no use. It was too late for comfort. She just really, really wanted her fiance.

The next thought that had come to mind was the fact that he had been on the phone with her when he was about twenty minutes away from the Hamptons house...and his car was found about twenty minutes away from the Hamptons house. Of course, as a cop she knows you're not supposed to be distracted while driving—she tries her best to follow that rule, but her thoughts often cause her not to—and that a phone call most definitely falls under the category of distraction. It makes her realize that...if this was just some random accident, it might of been all her fault, and not just because he had been on his way to their wedding.

That thought, that realization, had sent her into a fit of uncontrollable tears and sobs that had turned her into a gasping, coughing and crying mess. The idea of this being completely her fault—yes, even though he called her—had been harder to take than the sight of the flaming car itself. If this is all her fault, Alexis will hate her, Martha will hate her, countless fans will hate her, and Gina and Paula and probably Meredith will all hate her. She'll hate herself, if he's dead and it's her fault. She'll hate herself. She already did—and she didn't even know if he's dead, yet—the moment that it had dawned on her.

From that moment, a slowly worsening churning had begun in her stomach. The warning before the storm, she's known since the moment it hit her. She had spent the majority of the ride after that staring out the window, setting her mind to one thing: making sure she didn't throw up all over herself in Esposito's car. Her hand had clenched the door every single time they hit a bump or a curb in the road, her head had been pressed against the headrest, hard, trying to keep it still. Esposito had asked if she was okay, and Ryan had earned himself a glare when he almost said she looked like she was about to throw up—not because he was wrong, but because hearing the words 'throw up' had just made the nausea worse.

And so, the minute Esposito brought his car to a stop in front of the precinct, planning on dropping her and Ryan off before going to find somewhere to park, she pushed her door open. So distracted by the unrelenting urge to empty her stomach—the waves of nausea rushing over her like a tsunami—she had forgotten to close it behind her, but she remembers vaguely hearing Ryan yell out for her after the sound of two closing doors. She was really too distracted to really pay attention, already pushing the precinct's door open and running in. The sidewalk had been rough against her bare feet, but the tiles of the floor were cold and soothing as she feels sweat begin to gather on her forehead.

She practically sprints into the lady's room of the precinct's ground floor, pushing one seemingly suddenly extremely heavy door open with her right hand, her left one pushing open the nearest stall before she practically falls to her knees. Her whole upper body heaves forward as her stomach empties itself, her throat burning as her diaphragm heaves and pushes everything her body's rejecting out of her. Her stomach aches as she pulls away from the toilet, the stall's door still open as she leans back against the stall's wall.

The metal at her back is cold, and the temperature seeps through the thin lace covering her back—the material practically sticking to her skin because of the layer of sweat that's developed there—and cools her down immensely. Her whole body is overheated, and she feels like she just finished a workout, she's so physically and emotionally drained. She leans her head against the wall, letting her eyes drift shut, silently begging her mind not to conjure up images of fire or corpses or children. It doesn't, thankfully. She's too exhausted to deal with such nightmares right now.

After a few seconds, her hip begins to ache from the odd position she's sitting in, her knees awkwardly tilted to the side, the dress cushioning them, but only making it worse on her hips. She pulls her legs up, planting her feet firmly on the ground, her knees spread slightly, the thick skirts pooling around her calves, keeping in unwelcome warmth. With her right hand, she pulls the heavy layers up to her knees the best she can al the while keeping them from falling down her thighs to give anyone who might walk in a full view of the thong she put on this morning. With her other hand, she grasps handful of the material and pulls it to the side, an attempt to give her legs breathing room until she can find the strength to stand up and go upstairs to homicide and get her change of clothes.

As if on cue, a loud knock sounds through the thick metal door. "Beckett? Are you okay?" calls Ryan's voice, as soft and gentle as possible, all the while being filled with worry. She almost scoffs at the question, though, the idea of being okay right now seeming impossible. Of course, she shows he's referring to the whole sprinting out of the car and to the bathroom, probably white as a ghost and obviously about to throw up. Of course, he means health wise and his question has pretty much nothing to do with the fact that her fiance might be dead, and if he's alive, some psychopath probably has him.

Because no, as thoughts of that come back and she remembers that she is on the precinct floor when she should be at her wedding reception, wrapped in her husband's arms instead of waiting to know if her fiance is even alive. Right now, he should be whispering how much he loves her in her ear, telling her softly that he can't wait to spend three weeks alone with her on a private island and just enjoy finally being married to her. But right now, she's sitting on a cold, filthy bathroom floor in her wedding dress, tears rolling down her cheeks as she waits. And no, she can't even say she got left at the altar or stood up by some asshole. No, when people ask her about today she'll have to explain that her sweet and loving fiance got run off the road and either died in a burning car or got kidnapped.

Another knock sounds—most likely still Ryan, trying to get a response out of her—just as she finds her stomach clenching again, her diaphragm's annoyingly sudden movements causing her to practically lunge back for the toilet. Her hands grasp the white porcelain as the dress' skirts once again fall to cover her legs, hot and heavy and God, she wants to change.

She only vaguely registers the hand that's suddenly on her back, the hand that obviously belongs to a man. She hears Ryan's familiar voice making more promises he should not make because he cannot keep them—well, those are the only ones she actually makes out. She's a little distracted by the way her stomach is so oddly reacting to this evening, her mind briefly flashing to the fact that the last time she threw up three times in a day, two times in such a short amount of time and she wasn't sick was back when her mom had just died and her dad was an alcoholic, and even then the doctor said it was because she wasn't eating enough...or, really, at all. The thought goes as quickly as it comes, and she once again collapses against the wall.

Part of her just wants to close her eyes and sleep, curl up into a ball and give her exhausted body and a chance to rest—and hope that when she wakes up, this will all of been a nightmare and she'll be in his arms the morning of their wedding...or the morning after, either is a million times better than this. Another part of her doesn't want to risk closing her eyes for a second, doesn't want to miss the very moment Lanie can confirm whether it's him or not, doesn't want the nightmares she knows will come to haunt her sooner than necessary. So, she drapes her arms across her stomach, keeps her eyes closed, instinctively pulls her knees as close to her chest as they can go with the thick layers of white fabric between her torso and legs. This time, she doesn't bother trying to push it aside. It doesn't help, anyway

"Kate?" she suddenly hears Ryan say, and she squeezes her eyes shut before opening them again, lazily looking up at the worried detective standing nearby, leaning against the stall's door frame of sorts. His image is blurred, though, his eyes practically invisible and his body looking more like a black blob than a man in a tailored suit. She brings her hand up to her face and wipes away more tears, feeling unbearably stupid for crying in front of the boys so much, and blinks a few times to help her eyes focus on him. It doesn't do much, but she manages to make out his face. "Are you feeling a little better? Can you stand up, at least?"

She groans at just the thought of trying to stand right now. Her whole body just feels tired, drained even. And she knows just sitting here won't do her any good, but she doesn't want to go up to homicide either, and she knows that's where Ryan wants to take her. She really doesn't want to go up there and see the break room where he usually makes her coffee, the interrogation room where he almost always stands proudly by her side, the chair where he always sits and stares at her as if she hung the moon. She doesn't want to see any of it, doesn't want the images that are already coming to mind to be even more vivid, images of him, memories that will always make her happy, and images of a precinct without him, dull and boring like it used to be.

She blinks again, looking up at Ryan and forcing those images back, the memories, the possible future. She doesn't want to deal with them right now. She can't deal with them right now. The churning in her stomach is already coming back and she knows that if she doesn't get rid of them soon, what's impossibly left of the small lunch she ate will very likely come up, like everything else has. She blinks one more time, finally able to focus on his face and see his familiar, friendly, worried blue eyes as he looks down at her. She shakes her head ever so slightly against the metal of the door, sees him slowly nod as if he already knew that would be her answer. It's kind of obvious, after all, and he is a detective.

"Beckett? Why don't you give me the code for your locker and I'll go get your stuff for you, okay? I'll bring it back down and you can change when your ready," he suggests, so quickly she can tell he's been planning on asking her that the whole time. She's not the kind of person to go around giving out her passwords and codes to anyone, she's seen way too much to even think about giving up that kind of information to anybody, really. But she trusts the boys, and right now Ryan's worried about her, so he obviously wouldn't do anything to hurt or upset her—him and Esposito always get worried about her, like the older brother's she never had—so she mumbles the code and lets her eyes drift closed as he leaves.

He returns only minutes later, the black duffel bag that's almost always stuffed into her locker in hand. He drops the bag next to her, and it hits the tile floor with a soft thud. Ryan tells her to get changed when she's ready and that he'll be waiting outside for her. She tells him not to wait, as she has no idea how long it'll take before she actually is ready to get up and change, but he doesn't answer. She knows he'll be waiting anyway. He's already in the older brother persona now, and it usually takes weeks for him and Espo to finally understand that she's okay after things like this happen.

She's not sure how long it takes, but she's pretty sure it's not too long before she presses her hands against the floor and struggles to push herself back into a standing position. Her legs are still weak and they wobble beneath her weight a bit—she feels like a toddler again, in her exhausted state. Her hands press firmly against the metal at her back as she lets her head fall back against it as well, her whole body further drained from the simple motion. She rests there for a moment, trying to regain the strength she lost, before opening her eyes and pushing herself up and away from the wall so she's standing fully upright.

She starts off by flushing the toilet, revolted by the sight of her own vomit, the smell suddenly registering in her mind and she groans softly in disgust. She then struggles to bend down enough to retrieve her bag, grasping the strap in her shaky hand and pressing it against the wall opposite from her, setting it on the toilet paper dispenser—it's the only thing that'll help her hold it up, and she's fairly certain she can't do it on her own right now. Her hand continues to shake as she unzips the duffel bag's main pouch, reaching in to retrieve her workout clothes. They're wrinkled from the way they were stuffed in the bag—which doesn't usually matter, since she usually only wears them when she goes down to the precinct gym to workout, alone. But today, she's fairly certain no one will really care if she doesn't look all that great. The circumstances aren't exactly in her favor right now.

She manages to drape the charcoal grey tank top and black leggings over the back of the toilet, the space in the small stall limiting her. She doesn't want to have to bend down more than necessary, anyway. She then reaches back into the bag and pulls out a pair of rather worn, black and blue sneakers, a pair of ankle socks stuffed into the shoes, and drops them to the floor, the duffel bag following with a thump. She doesn't bother picking it up, simply tries to turn a bit so her back is to the door. Her legs continue to shake with her movements, as do her hands as her fingers travel the expense of her side and fumble with the tiny tab on the zipper's slider.

This moment makes her glad that the dress' zipper in on the side and not on the back, and that there's no tiny buttons to fumble with on top of everything. She's positive that if there had been, she's have to call Ryan back in to help her undo them. And that's so not how she imaged slipping out of her wedding dress—not that this is, but at least there's no other man helping her with it now. The zipper comes to an end at her hip, and she releases the tab and slips the lace off her left shoulder. The lace covering her right shoulder falls easily as well, and then the dress falls completely and pools at her feet. She looks down at the puddled of white fabric and wonders what the hell she's supposed to do with the dress now.

Her dad had given her the dress very last minute, and at the moment it had seemed like it had all worked out for the better—one dress being ruined so she could where her mother's instead, making her feel like her mother really was there and looking down on her proudly. But now...now the dress is ruined, stained in black and grey and yellow, probably ripped somewhere for all she knows. As she glances down at her own body, she sees the scrapes on her knees and knows there's probably blood on the inside of the dress, too. Her dad will be so disappointed—she briefly wonders if he even knows what's going on, yet. This was her mother's dress, from their wedding day. And now it's ruined, thanks to her non-wedding day. She's not even sure what she'll do with it, how she'll even look at her dad in the eyes again now that she ruined her mother's wedding dress.

The tears pool in eyes before she can stop them, and fall down, soaking into the white material at her feet. She wipes the other's away quickly, before she starts full blown crying again—she'll deal with the dress issue later—and steps out of the puddle of fabric, gently kicking it aside. With her right hand, once again shaking like a leaf as her body grows weaker—the weight on her shoulders seems to grow and grow and grow—and fists her fingers around the lycra of her leggings, yanking them towards with a force that has her bracing herself against the wall with her hand.

She stays like that for a moment, trying to calm her racing heart—she half prefers the racing to the numb feeling it seemed to have earlier, though—before bringing her leg up to slip her foot into the stretchy material. Her left shoulder presses against the stall's wall as she tries to keep her balance on one leg, thankful when her foot slips through the other end of the leggings and she can press it back against the floor. She repeats the process with her other leg, pulling the lycra pants up to her hips with a yank. They're stretched oddly in a rather lopsided way, but she can't bring herself to care or bother to fix it. Ryan and Espo won't care anyway, and everyone else who might see her here will probably more distracted by the fact that she's here in the first place to care about how her leggings are on.

She sighs softly at that thought, absentmindedly reaching over to grab her tank top. She's here, at the precinct, and she shouldn't be and people are going to wonder and rumors are going to spread and either her reputation or his or the one of their relationship is going to be tainted in the eyes of everyone else. Some are going to say he left her at the altar. Others are going to say she left him. None are going to think that maybe, just maybe something else entirely happened and she doesn't even know if he's dead or alive. She sighs again as she slips the tank top over her body in one quick, practiced motion. Her hands are still shaking as they fall back to her sides.

She takes a moment to just stand there, try and make sense of the thoughts racing through her mind like cars around a Nascar track. It doesn't work, and she eventually just pushes all the thoughts back, trying her best to clear her mind and stay strong and not jump to conclusions until she knows something, anything, concrete. She releases another long, slow breath as she crouches down—her knees stiff, like the rest of her seems to be—and retrieves her shoes, placing the pair of rather expensive sneakers on the back of the toilet. One hand on the toilet paper dispenser, she manages to slip both of her socks on, wiggling her toes to rid them of the tingling numbness in them, or at least attempting to. She reaches for her shoes and slips them on, too, not bothering to go through the process of untying them and all that. She doesn't have the energy to care about possibly ruining the backs of them.

Finally dressed in something a little more comfortable—her body feeling a little better from the movement and the lack of nausea at the moment—she looks back down at the ground where the gown she had been wearing is sitting in a rather crumpled pile. From this angle, the dress still looks beautiful and white, and she hates knowing that she's the reason it's not all that beautiful and white anymore, that she ruined her mother's gown. And she has no idea what to do with it. Not that there's anything she can do now but pick it up off the filthy bathroom floor. So, she bends down slightly and grasps the lace backing with her fingers, pulling the dress up off the ground slowly, struggling slightly, and eventually pressing it against the glossy blue wall.

She can't bring herself to look at it, to examine the damage she's done, so she tears her gaze off it and flicks the door's lock with her free hand. Finally leaving the bathroom stall—it feels like she's been in there forever—she goes straight for the vanity, setting the dress down on the surprisingly dry counter. She then quickly turns back and still rather weakly walks back to the stall to retrieve the duffel bag, dropping it to floor as she takes in her appearance in the mirror.

Her whole face looks pale, extremely pale, almost ghostly pale. Her eyes are almost cloudy and distant looking, the green orbs struggling to lock on themselves despite her best efforts. Her face is covered in smears of makeup, black mascara making her look like a raccoon—she so should of worn waterproof mascara like she had initially planned. Her pink lipstick is smudged, but not in the 'I was just thoroughly kissed' way she likes, but more of a 'I just threw up more than once' way that she despises instantly. And, letting her unfocused gaze travel her face quickly, she realizes she just looks sad, really, really sad.

She tears her gaze away from herself and looks down at the sink, passing her hand under the tap to trigger the automatic flow of water. The water runs through her fingers, lukewarm and soothing as it seems to wash away a layer of dirt and sweat, bringing the filth from the day down the drain with it. She runs her other hand under the water, too, letting the filth all go down the drain, happy to watch the slightly colored water, everything coating her hands ruining it's usual transparency. When the water flowing down the drain returns to it's normal color, she brings her hands up to her face and washes off the streaks of mascara below her eyes, the black swirling in the white sink before disappearing down the drain as well.

She looks back up at her reflection, once she's done, and takes in her still sad eyes, even as the lack of black below them makes it look a lot better. She runs the back of her hand over her lips, wiping off what's left of the smudged lipstick, the pink hue coating her knuckles and falling away as she lets the steady jet of water fall against her skin. She doesn't watch as it disappears this time, staring straight at her own reflection, sad green eyes meeting the pair in the mirror, getting sadder with every second that she sees how sad she if.

Castle's seen her upset a handful of times—more of a heaping handful, though. He's been there with her for her mother's birthday, as well as the anniversary of her death, holding her through them both and wiping away her tears. He's seen her through the worst of that investigation, making promises of justice to be found, promises they both knew he'd try his absolute best to keep. He'd held her and comforted her after he went to Paris without telling her, promising to never do anything so stupid again. He had made the same promises over the days following the moment she caught him with a reporter straddling his lap.

Castle has always had an impeccable talent for reading her moods, and knowing how to deal with them. He can tell with a simple once over when she's happy, when she's angry, when she's upset and just needs a hug. If he were here right now, seeing her in this state of grief and pain and borderline depression, he'd wrap his arms around her waist and press his lips to the top of her head. She lean her head back against his shoulder, letting him whisper promises in her ear. He'd tell her it would all work out, they'd figure it out, that everything would work out it the end—they would be all the same promises Ryan and Esposito are making, but she'd believe Castle.

She blinks and sighs softly, the all too familiar scene playing in her mind coming to an end, bringing her back to her present reality: she might never have his arms wrap around her like that again. Her own fingers drift to her side, where she can practically feel the way his arms used to wrap around her, and longs to feel that again. Her other hand goes to her temple, where she has felt his lips countless times, and can practically feel the tingling feeling they leave in their wake. She sighs softly, her fingers lingering on her head as she feels tears spring to her eyes, running down her cheeks.

As if her own skin had burned her, she drops both her hands back down to her sides. The eyes in the mirror are suddenly even darker, more somber, and she tears her own eyes away from them before her own reflection upsets her all over again. She reaches down and grasps the duffel bag's strap, her other hand reaching out to fist the two lace straps of the gown, pulling it with her as well. In quick steps, she exits the bathroom, closing her eyes momentarily to keep the tears from welling in them again. She hasn't cried this much in one day since the immediate aftermath of her mom's death, years ago. And she's embarrassed by how many emotions his potential death brings out of her in such a short period of time—although, she thinks briefly that if this or anything remotely close to this is what her father went through when her mom was killed, she can understand a little more why he turned to booze to get him through it.

That thought echoing in her mind—the promise that no matter what happens, she won't follow in her father's footsteps closely following it—she pulls the heavy metal door to the lady's room open again and emerges back into the main room of the precinct's ground floor. As promised, Ryan is standing right there. Esposito has apparently joined him, because he stands at his partner's side, his strong posture betrayed by the worry gleaming in his dark eyes. She practically shoves the dress in her hands at him.

"Get that out of my sight, please," she practically begs of him, already turning to Ryan so the dress because nothing but a sliver of white fabric in her peripheral vision. She can practically feel Espo's questioning gaze on her, though, silently asking what he's supposed to do with the wedding gown. She silently wishes she had the answer. "I don't know, Espo. Please, just...bring it to the loft or something. I just don't...can't see it," she says, still not risking looking at him, though she can vaguely see his nod from the corner of her eye.

"Aren't you going to the loft, though, Kate?" asks Ryan, his brow furrowing under her gaze. She feels and instant lump of sheer emotion come up her throat, clogging it, keeping any answer she may have in, and seemingly keeping any air out. She painfully swallows it back, struggling to take in a breath as she does so. He takes note, like any good detective would, and continues to gaze at her questioningly.

"I can't," she answers rather simply, her voice gaining a tone of desperation as the words slip from the seam of her lips. She can see the disapproval on his face instantly, can see that he thinks she's going to stay here, possibly sleep in the break room like she used to. But there's less of a chance of that happening than there is of her going home. The last place she wants to be right now is here, in the precinct where they truly became partners and friends and fell in love. It's almost as hard, if not harder, than going back to the loft, back home.

The problem is, right now it's not home. Martha and Alexis are probably just as upset as she is, years of history between them and Castle, a family bond, the bond of blood, making this difficult on them, too. She knows first hand what it's like to lose a parent, and the last thing she wants is for Alexis to go through that—even though she knows she's too late to stop it, the instant pain of losing a parent, even though Castle might not be lost, has definitely already hit the young girl. She can't go back home to see it, though.

"I really can't, Ryan. I can't sleep in our bed and not know if we'll ever share it again. I can't go to our home and not know if any of our dreams for the future will come true. I can't...watch Alexis go through what I went through," she tries to explain softly, tears instantly springing to her eyes. Even with blurred vision, she can practically see the panic flying to Ryan's eyes as he realizes she's about to cry, again—why did you have to go and fall in love, Kate?

"Okay, Kate," he agrees softly, and she's glad he relented so easily, hand coming to her own face to once again wipe away the tears that are rolling down her cheeks. "You don't have to go home. But you do need somewhere to stay. There's no way I'm letting you stay here."

"I'll rent a hotel room, Ryan. We, uh...I can afford it," she says, her slip up making another round of tears spring to her eyes and she wonders how the hell she's not dehydrated or something yet, because she's crying so much and thrown up so much that she's sure she should be—not that she'd risk drinking anything unless she was really thirsty, she doesn't want to throw up again. "I c- can afford it," she corrects herself again, trying sound more sure of the statement, but her voice cracks, making it sound even more shaky that the first time.

"No. You're not staying in a hotel alone, Beckett. You've had a hard day, and your sad and your...sick. Castle would kill…" he trails, seeing the widening of her eyes and the steady stream of tears continue at a seemingly steady place. "You can, uh...come to our place, sleep on the couch. Jenny won't mind. So, unless you mind Sarah Grace waking you up a few times during the night… Just, please come? I don't want to leave you alone," he practically begs, but just the mention of her little niece already has her wanting to give in. And as much as she wants to argue and be alone, she knows he's right. She is upset, and she is...sick...and the last thing she needs is to be in a lonely hotel room with only thoughts of Castle to help time go by. So, she nods, accepting his offer with the silent tilt of her head.

They turn to leave, Esposito only a few steps behind them. This way, she can't see the dress at all, though the image of it still haunts her. Ryan pushes open the door and holds it for her, and she walks out despite hating the action from anyone that's not Castle. She hates feeling like people are doing things for her, especially Ryan and Espo. And yet, she's making Espo bring her wedding dress home for her, because she doesn't even want to be in that building right now. Just as they begin to go their separate ways, Ryan planning on hailing a cab for the two of them, Esposito heading for his car, she turns around.

"Espo?" He turns around to face her. "Thank you. And, uh… could you tell Alexis I'm sorry I'm not...home, and that I'll be there as soon as I'm ready?" she asks. He nods, a sad smile coming across his face as he turns and heads for his car. Not only is she not ready to be home, in their home, and she's not ready to watch Alexis go through what she went through, but she knows that being around Alexis right now would be just as bad for the young girl as it would be for her.

Back when her mom died, her therapist advised her to move out of her dad's place, telling her that his grief was only making it harder on her. As she grew older and learned to see the reality she refused to look at, at the time, she realized he had been right, the whole grieving process had been easier without the shadow of her father's pain and alcoholism looming over her like a dark cloud. The last thing she wants is to be that dark cloud for Alexis.

As she climbs into the cab Ryan hailed, her eyes once again fill with tears as thoughts of a younger version of herself grieving mix with thoughts of her current self grieving, and thoughts of her almost-stepdaughter grieving as well, all three woman going through such similar, but such different things.


	4. Chapter 4

_**We Won't Ever Give Up**_

* * *

She jerks awake at the feeling of a gentle hand on her shoulder, her light sleep broken by the simple touch. She groans softly, then, absolutely exhausted—and the room is bright and making her eyes almost sting and her head pound as the fatigue mixes with the effects of the bright light. Another, softly groan escaped her throat as she rests her head back against…whatever she had been using as a pillow—she doesn't really care what it is, she's just so tired. So tired that even the hard surface, cold surface her head comes in contact with seems to be sufficient to sleep on.

Her whole body feels weak this morning, and not just the normal way it usually does when you're just waking up from a not-so-good night sleep, but in a way that has her wanting to fall back asleep...and she's not quite sure she ever wants to wake up. Her stomach aches, her abdominal muscles cramping from hours of emptying her already empty stomach. Her knees sting from rubbing against the tile floor of Ryan's bathroom for the past few hours. Her head is spinning, her whole body is weak and drained and she feels like she could lose consciousness at any moment.

Not to mention the hole that seems to be in her heart, and the ache that seems to accompany it. With the night she had, she hadn't fallen asleep long enough to forget—not that she really minds, as she knows first hand how hard it is when you wake up happy and it suddenly dawns on you that someone you love is gone, or could be. That feeling is one of the absolute worst she's ever felt, the crushing moment when you realize that your horrible day wasn't a dream. So yeah, having the image of his flame engulfed car imprinted in her mind to haunt her as much when she's awake as when she's not isn't really the worst thing possible, but that doesn't stop her from wishing things were different, so different.

If the wedding had gone on as planned, she's probably be wrapped in his arms right about now, fingernails digging into the sinewy flesh of his back as his lips kissed every single part of her. If the wedding had gone on as planned, she'd be making love to her husband right now, gasping a talented tongue, moaning into his kiss, falling apart under his touch in a way only he's ever made her fall apart, in a way that goes far beyond physical pleasure. If the wedding had gone on as planned, she would be smiling at the thought of three weeks of vacation, in the Maldives, with him there to keep her company in so many ways.

Now, though, since the wedding didn't go on as planned, she feels the tears welling in her eyes at the thought of the three weeks together they had planned—right now, she'd give anything for three more weeks with him.

The hand on her shoulder—the one that she somehow forgot about—squeezes gently. She opens her eyes slowly, blinking quickly to bring the person hovering above her into focus. Ryan's pale skin, blue eyes and yet-to-be styled hair come into view and she can't help but groan softly, her eyes drifting closed again. Ryan squeezes her shoulder again, and she hears the rustling of his clothing, feels his foot gently tap hers and she knows he's sitting down next to her now. She cracks her eyes open a sliver just to confirm it.

Seeing him up close now, the bright light from the ceiling no longer blinding her as she looks straight ahead, meeting his eyes. He looks worried, even more so than yesterday. His eyes are glassy, as if tears remaining unshed linger in them, and a little wider than usual. His lower lips is just barely pulled between his teeth. His one hand, the one not currently resting supportively on her knee, is fumbling with the neckline and sleeves of his sleep shirt, a plain black cotton t-shirt. His hair is more disheveled than she had first thought, and it looks almost as if he had spent the night tossing and turning instead of sleeping. She finds herself wondering if maybe he did.

Out of the three people that have really seen her since the accident—Lanie, Esposito and Ryan—he's probably the one that understands—or that can at least imagine—what she's going through best. Unlike Espo and Lanie, he knows what it's like to love someone the way she loves Castle. It's the way he loves Jenny. She's seen how happy Jenny makes Ryan, and can only imagine that losing her would do to him what the possibility of having lost Castle has done to her. She wonders briefly if maybe that's what has him looking more worried than Espo and even Lanie, the fact that he can imagine how she feels, and if he's even close to right, he knows that this is the most unpleasant, scary and saddening thing she's ever had to deal with.

"Kate?" his voice breaks through her thoughts, soft and sympathetic, as his hand gently squeezes her knee. "Beckett, you have to get up...and try and get some rest, okay?" he asks. She closes her eyes again and lets her head call back against the porcelain tub behind her, groaning as she shakes her head. The last thing she wants right now is to get up. "Please, Kate. You've been up all night and I'm worried about you. You need some sleep...or some food...or both." She groans loudly at just the thought of food. After the night she's had, it's one of the last things she wants to think about.

He's right, she was up all night. Sleep doesn't come easy when all your mind is on is the fact that the most important person in your life might have burned to death that day. The images of the fire hadn't left her mind from the minute they got to Ryan's place and Jenny—who apparently has the unfortunate problem of not being able to think before she speaks—asked what had happened. Ryan, of course, had tried to shush her and told her he'd explain later, but just the question had brought the images to her mind and she was crying before Jenny could even think of saying something back. Next thing she knew, she had been kneeling in front of the toilet, again, as the stress of retelling the story made her stomach clench as reject all it's contents all over again.

When she eventually found the strength to get up off the bathroom floor the first time, she had practically stumbled into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, exhausted and still crying quietly to herself. Ryan and Jenny had had the common sense to not try and talk to her, not in her moment of grief and pain and pure exhaustion that had her ready to snap at anyone who tried to tell her it would all be okay. So, she assumes they had just retreated to their bedroom, neither bothering to talk to her.

She had eventually cried herself to the point of sheer exhaustion, eyes no longer forming tears as she sobbed softly into the couch's armrest. She did fall asleep, at some point, exhaustion taking over her. The images that instantly came to mind—his blue eyes closing to never open again, his body being engulfed in flames, Lanie telling her the charred body is Castle, Alexis blaming her for everything—had her shooting up on the couch, gasping for breath in what felt like seconds. And even though she doubts her mind's capability to conjure such vivid images for so many horrible scenarios in such a short amount of time, she was a little too distracted before falling asleep and after waking up to take the time to check a clock.

She had ended up on her feet, pacing the Ryans' living room with the home phone in hand, debating whether or not calling Lanie was a good idea for a good thirty minutes—or, that's what it felt like. After deciding not to—Lanie had promised to call the second she knew if their burnt, black corpse was Castle or not—she had debated calling the loft. She figured maybe Martha and Alexis were in a similar boat, and they might understand better than anyone else she could call. Then, the images of Alexis getting mad and blaming her for the current unsure state of her father had come to mind, flashing with red around the edges along with fiery accusations and bright, orange hair, and she decided against it. She still wasn't ready to face Alexis or Martha. And finally she had debated calling her dad—since he had lost his wife, he might understand what it's like to possibly lose your fiance.

Ultimately, it had been the mixture of images of the fire-consumed car that her fiance was believed to be in and of her mother, pale, bloody and stabbed in a dark alley that had made her drop the phone and run for the bathroom again. Once her stomach had given up on rejecting things that were not in it, she had collapsed against the tub and started crying again, exhaustion seeping into her bones and nerves and every single cell that makes up her body, before she eventually fell back asleep, still sitting on the bathroom floor. The rest of her night was just plain cruel—she had decided that sometime in the early morning and still stands by it now—as images impossible to deal with had haunted her, making her wake up with jerks and gasps and leaving her panting and sobbing in Ryan's bathroom, making her throw up again, and then rendering her so exhausted that she ended up falling back asleep only to repeat the horrible cycle.

She blinks quickly to clear her mind, and then closes her eyes again, squeezing them shut to rid her mind of the horrible images that have returned. Her breath seems caught in her throat as, behind her eyelids she sees another version of her, dressed in a black dress and standing in a crowd of people, grieving her fiance as everyone ignores her because they all blame her for his unfortunate death. She feels the tears rolling down her cheeks before she can think of stopping them. Her one hand reaches up the rake through and clench in her own hair, pulling almost painfully as if the physical pain will distract her from the emotional pain. It doesn't. Her other hand also reaches up, curling around the cool white porcelain of the toilet seat, clinging onto it for dear life as her stomach seems to be indecisive on whether or not it wants to rid itself of contents it still doesn't have.

The waves of nausea eventually calm, though, as Ryan remains sitting next to her on the floor. She feels his hand squeeze her knee a few times as she attempts multiple times to push the images out of her mind and make sure they never come back. She knows they will, even as she fails at getting rid of them in the first place. And as the image of the lonely grieving girl being blamed for her own fiance's death because they were on the phone right before the accident fades away, she snaps her eyes open overly wide, the tears still in them making everything appear twisted and blurry. Usually, keeping her eyes open keeps the haunting thoughts away. She waits a few seconds before letting her eyes return to a somewhat normal width and blinking away the tears as quickly as she possibly can—the less time she spends with her eyes closed, the better.

"Beckett? You look really tired. Do you want me to help you up so you can lay down and get some sleep?" asks Ryan, eyes locking on hers, his worry even more evident now as her cheeks are glistening with drying tears. She shakes her head almost violently quickly, ignoring the way it makes her feel like she's spinning. The last thing she wants to do right now is sleep. "Okay, Kate, calm down. Do you want to try and eat or drink something?"

She feels like a child as she shakes her head violently again, making it clear than she doesn't want food nor water at the moment. The way Ryan is speaking to her—even though she knows he doesn't mean to—reminds of the way one would speak to a child who doesn't know what's going on. The way his undeniable worry seeps into his voice reminds her of the way one would treat a child who just lost their blanky. And she hates it, because not only is Ryan's tone of voice making her feel that way, but she's completely playing into it, too. She feels like a whiny two year old who can't or won't do anything for herself, even if she knows she should get up and try to rest, and she should try to eat or drink something. She won't.

"Okay. At least get up off the floor? You can come sit at the table with us. Sarah Grace will want to see her auntie Katie," he asks again. She smiles halfheartedly at the offer, in a way only her little niece can make her. Babies just have that effect on people...although it's new that they have this effect on her. She doesn't dwell on it, though, because thinking of why she's suddenly a sappy, cooing baby person will send her thoughts back to a place where she doesn't want them. So, instead of letting her mind run wild with thoughts and memories she's growing to hate, she nods slowly.

She can practically see the smile of relief that comes across his face as she finally agrees to do something besides sitting here on the uncomfortable bathroom floor.

The rustling of material echoes in the small room again as Ryan stands back up. She cracks her eyes open again and looks up at him, his hands extended to her. The corner of his lips is tilted upwards the slightest, but hers have fallen back into a frown. He might be relieved, she's just scared that getting up with have her wanting to fall to the ground again, that Jenny will accidentally say something that'll send her thoughts back into an unpleasant whirlwind, that seeing or holding Sarah Grace will only bring back more unwelcome memories or images of a future she could of had, that she should of had. She reaches out and takes his offered hands anyway.

He's practically holding her exhausted body upright as he leads her into the apartment's small dining room. She's greeted by the sight of Jenny sitting at the table, newspaper spread across the wooden surface and coffee mug in hand. She feels her stomach clench slightly at the scent, but it's nothing compared to the unrelenting nausea she had been experiencing for the past twelve hours or so. Next to Jenny, in her high chair, is a happy, babbling as she bangs the chair's table with the spoon Jenny is apparently letting her have for the time being, Sarah Grace. The small bowl or puree is sitting on the table, seemingly untouched.

Ryan leads her to the nearest chair and she practically collapses into it. Her legs are as weak and shaky as yesterday, if not even worse now that she's gone almost a full day without any restful sleep. Her one hand automatically drapes across her stomach, rubbing circles into the layers of flesh there as she silently begs it to stay calm and to not have an even worse reaction to the scent of coffee that lingers in the air. The images of completely runny, half milk, half rice cereal baby food isn't helping, either. The other hand lands on the table with a soft thud, just as Ryan takes his seat next to Jenny.

The soft sound draws the blonde's attention, and Kate finds herself smiling weakly as the woman regards her. Her head has begun pounding again—when that restarted, she's not quite sure—and she fights the urge to let her eyes drift closed again. Really, she does want to sleep. She's exhausted and every single part of her being is practically demanding sleep, except the stomach that won't stay calm and the mind that won't shut down. She keeps them open, though, and locked on Jenny's blue ones as the slightly younger woman seems to take in her appearance.

"Are you feeling any better? Kevin said you were awake most of the night, said you were sick?" she finally speaks, eyes moving off the hand that's still caressing the skin over her still upset stomach to land on her green eyes. She grimaces slightly at Jenny's mention of how sick she was—likely still is. She doesn't really want to talk about that, either. But, since Jenny is such a nice and caring person who really is sweet when you get past the part where she sometimes forgets to think, she feels the need to respond.

"Yeah, well, I really haven't been feeling the best. It's just...really stressful. It's hard to deal with...everything, right now. I guess my body is just reacting in the form of a bout of extreme nausea," she says, trying to avoid saying what Jenny already knows. She doesn't need to tell Jenny what has her stressed out. That happened last night. Now, she's just going to answer whatever questions she might have, hoping that Jenny learned her lesson on asking about what happened last night when her answer had sent her on her first race to the Ryans' bathroom.

"Yeah, makes sense. With the way Kevin made it sound, though...I don't think I've thrown up as much as you have in such a short period of time since I was pregnant with this little one," says Jenny with a smile, reaching over the pry the small spoon out of Sarah's fist. She watches, feeling her stomach clench instantly at Jenny's words. Since I was pregnant with this one, is playing in her mind of repeat. She feels the blood practically drain from her face, and before Jenny or Ryan can even send her a second glance, she's back on her feet and running for the bathroom.

* * *

The tears are streaming down her face steadily as she hops out of the cab in front of Lanie's building, throwing a handful of bills she burrowed from Ryan at the driver, not waiting for her change. Really, money is the least of her worries right about now. All she needs right now is her best friend and the results she hopefully has. Right now, she really needs a hug and someone to talk to who knows her a little better than Jenny does, and who thinks a little more before she speaks. Lanie has helped see her through every aspect of this relationship, anyway, why should this time be any different.

She doesn't even know if Lanie is home, but hopes to God and anyone else that might be listening to her countless prayers that she is and that she has the results she desperately needs more than anything right now. She needs to hear that he might still be alive. She needs just a pinch of hope, a small light—perhaps even a stupid little firefly—at the end of this dark tunnel. And Lanie, right now, is the only person who can give her that, or take the chances of it away from her. Either way, right now she just needs to know.

That, and she needs someone to tell her she's absolutely crazy and that there's no way she's pregnant. Even though she's not crazy and it is possible, and that's exactly what Lanie will tell her, even if that's so not what she wants to hear right now. Lanie always tells it to her like it is, says things bluntly when it comes to Kate and her love life and Castle, and the only time she could possibly imagine her best friend sugar coating things would be if the results she got on the dental check wasn't the ones they wanted and then she had to tell her that there's a strong possibility that she's pregnant right now.

She and Castle have never had good timing, and she usually looks back on those moments and hopes to avoid another one, and yet it never seems to work. They have a tendency of making life changing statements and decisions when one is on the verge of death, or in the middle of a full out yelling match.

Besides that multiple occasions where they came this close to actually ending their partnership, it's also in the middle of a fight that she realized she was in love with him—and then fear took over and she told him they were done.

It was when she was lying on the cemetery's grass, bleeding out in his arms that he told her he loved her for the first time. A year later, it was in the middle of another fight that he told her again, about a year later, and then he ended their partnership.

It was right after being a hair away from falling off a roof that she decided she needed to be with him, and showed up at his doorstep to show him that. It was standing on a bomb that was almost surely going to take her life that she finally told him she loved him for the first time. And few months later, it was in the midst of another huge fight that he decided to propose.

And now...now it's as he's either dead or kidnapped that she realizes there's a strong possibility that she's pregnant with his child. She's never hated their horrible timing more than she does right now.

It's the sudden ding of the elevator—she doesn't even remember getting on it in the first place—that breaks her from her thoughts and memories. Her stomach is churning again, the memories so bittersweet are as unwelcome as all the good and the bad ones, and she swallows back the bile that is rising in her throat and threatening to come out of her mouth. She really doesn't need to throw up right now, no matter how strong the urge to is. Her racing thoughts are enough, without her unrelenting stomach that seems to be the epicentre of her shaky weakness and illness. She takes a wobbly step off the elevator before walking as quickly as physically possible to Lanie's door.

Despite how weak she feels, the knocks on Lanie's wooden door are loud and seem to echo through the hallway and in her ears, making her pounding headache worse than before. She groans softly, bringing her hand up to her temple to rub small circles into her skin. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn't. This time it doesn't, and she lets her hand fall back to her side, already debating whether or not she should knock again or just find some way to call her friend—she doesn't have a phone on her, so that'll be easier said than done. And then the door opens to reveal an obviously just waking up and still exhausted Lanie. She barely manages to get the corner of her lips to tilt upwards, but an extremely weak smile comes across her face as her friend looks up at her.

"Kate? What are you doing here? I thought you were with Ryan and Jenny," she mumbles sleepily, already ushering her inside. Lanie's hair is up in a ponytail, black curls frizzy from sleep and most likely a shower. She's wearing an oversized NYPD t-shirt that Kate knows belongs—or belonged—to Esposito, and a pair of pink cotton pajama pants. Her face is bare of any makeup, her lips tilted downwards in a small frown and her eyes, like Ryan's have been for the past twelve hours, are filled with worry. She doesn't bother to even think that the worry is unwarranted. It's not everyday that Castle may or may not of died in a car crash, and it's very rare that she shows up at her doorstep, crying—she's pretty sure that only happened maybe three times in the years since they became close.

"Kate, why are you crying? I mean...you don't have to answer that. I was, uh...just gonna call you with the results," Lanie tries again, her hand still on her lower back as she led Kate to the couch, practically pushing her into a sitting position. In the state she's in, she barely offered any resistance to the hands on her shoulders. She wipes the tears from her cheeks, looking up at her friend with wide, wet eyes. Lanie's quick to defend herself, since it's fairly obvious she didn't just get the results. "I, uh...finished the tests last night and, um...texted Ryan to see how you were doing. He said you just fell asleep and had been pacing and sick all night and he was scared that if he woke you up, that you wouldn't get anymore sleep. I decided I'd call him back after I woke up, which I just did."

She just keeps looking up at her friend with wide, expectant eyes. This isn't exactly why she came here, obviously, but now that she knows Lanie knows if there's even a chance that her fiance...and possible baby-daddy…is alive, there's no way she's waiting. Of course, she's a little upset that she's had to wait until now, considering the fact that Lanie has known for a while. But she pushes those thoughts back, knowing Ryan was just looking out for her...and that even if she wanted to do something to him or Lanie for holding out on her, she really doesn't have the strength to so much as glare right now.

"Kate, I know this isn't why you came here. But, since I also know that even if you look like the crying, walking dead right now, you will beat my ass if I don't tell you," she tries to laugh softly, but the room's atmosphere is too dark and somber as she remains sitting on the couch, tears rolling down her cheeks all over again at the thoughts running through her mind. She knows that this moment could either give her hope, the way he always has, or take any traces of it away and leave her in the dark underworld people call grief. She hopes with everything in her that it's not the latter.

"The body they found in the car, Kate, it's not your fiance. It's not Castle, the dental records don't match," says Lanie, putting and end to her misery. A happy, relieved sob escapes her throat as another round of tears springs to and falls from her eyes. She practically springs to her feet and wraps Lanie in a hug, her tears soaking the black t-shirt as she buries her face into her best friend's neck, whispering thank yous to her and every supernatural force that had anything to do with this. Lanie's arms wrap just as securely around her—though Kate suspects it's half because she expects her to fall to the floor in her weak state. She doesn't let those thoughts linger, though, as she continues to sob into her friend's shoulder, relieved no longer able to begin to describe how she feels.

The images of his burnt body fade away all at once, and she mentally bans them from ever returning. Those are some images that if they ever appear again, it'll be way too soon. These past few days are some of those days that she never wants to think about again, that's she'll never reminisce about or talk to someone about—unless it's a therapist, she feels like there's a pretty good chance that Dr. Burke will here about some of this. And though she knows he might not be alive, that whoever took him might of killed him by now, she also knows that there's a chance that he is alive and out there and that she'll find him. Besides, the logical part of her mind is telling that is someone wanted to kill him, why put somebody else in his car? She hopes this is one of those times when the logical part of her mind is right.

"Now, you have to tell me why you showed up on my doorstep crying," says Lanie, pulling away slightly. Kate's face drops as she reaches up to wipe the tears from her eyes, not that it's stopping more from developing and falling in steady streams. She feels her stomach clench and tells herself not to let it get the best of her, as she plops down on the couch. Lanie sits down on the small coffee table across from her, and for the first time since her arrival, seems to take in Kate's appearance. She just sits there and, once again, lets her regard her, eyes widening with worry every few seconds as her gaze travels from the slightly untied sneakers on her feet to the disheveled, obviously not brushed hair on her head, thrown up into a ponytail messier than Lanie's with a hair tie she found in the Ryans' bathroom.

"Oh...that..." she says softly, hearing the sadness, pain and fear in her own voice. Because that seems to be scarier than the fact that her fiance is most likely being held captive by some psychopath right now. Actually, it's probably scarier because her fiance is most likely being held captive by some psychopath right now, because the possibility of doing this without him still hangs over her head, a weight ready to crush her like nothing else ever could. She looks up at Lanie, tears still staining her cheeks and pooling in the corner of her eyes and mumbles the real reason why she showed up here crying so suddenly.

"I think I might be pregnant." She had choked on a sob, and Lanie's jaw had practically hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

"Katherine Beckett?" calls an unfamiliar, seemingly distant voice. She groans softly into her palms, hating the way her name sounds as it escapes the nurse she can already guess is stuck-up and has her chin held higher than what she would consider normal. She can already picture the woman, dressed in scrubs, of course, and either wearing a pair of nice flats...or maybe name brand running shoes. And this so _isn't _where she wants the be, and this isn't where she should be right now but when you have a friend like Lanie who looks at everything as something huge and can panic at what is perfectly normal—like her potential pregnancy—and who has friends at every hospital in almost every department in New York City, this is where you end up.

In retrospect, Lanie was rather supportive immediately following her nothing less of bittersweet announcement. Her hug had been tight and supportive as she had cried—sobbed would be a more accurate word—against her shoulder. She has sat her on the couch, and was the first person to get her to take a sip of water since the 'accident'—she now knows it _wasn't _an unfortunate accident and more of some elaborate scheme, not that she's had any time to think about it. _Kate, if you are pregnant, the baby will need food and water. You can't keep starving yourself_, she had said. And though she had gone far longer than twenty-four—or, thirty-six, according to Lanie—hours straight without food or drink, she drank half the glass of water, slowly sipping it over the course of an hour.

Lanie had offered to take a trip to the drugstore for her, too, and pick up a pregnancy test or two. At the moment, she hadn't wanted to be alone and had the refused the offer. Now, she's starting to wonder if that was the right decision, because _that's _when Lanie mentioned her friend, the apparently incredible Obstetrician who would most likely be willing to spend an extra little while at the office to run a blood test and make sure everything's okay. She hadn't been able to find a good reason not to go to the doctor's, and Lanie had made the call before she could gather what little thought ability she had left to find one. And the appointment had been planned...without her consent.

In fact, unlike Ryan, Lanie had been able to make her take a nap, too. Well, she had tried to, practically pushing her into a laying position on the couch. _You know, you look like the walking dead. You're exhausted, Kate. Take a nap, _she had said. And she had tried—really, _really _tried—because she had been exhausted, equally from lack of sleep and the undeniable effort her body had put into emptying itself of all food, drink and stomach acid. She was pretty sure that half the tears that had fallen from her eyes in the past twelve hours especially had been there only because of how tired she was—and for Kate Beckett, admitting something like _that_, even just to herself, means that it was pretty bad. Anyway, she had laid down and tried to fall asleep, but with the fact that Castle was still missing _and _that she might be pregnant hanging over her head and looming in the back of her mind, the images behind her closed eyelids were new, but just as unpleasant.

It had been a particular one of a child on father's day—a little girl, in her head—that had made her eyes snap open and the tears fall instantly. The little girl with her face and hair, but his bright blue eyes, had been asking why every other kid had a mommy _and _a daddy, and she didn't. And even though, in her mind, Kate had the feeling she had already explained to the little girl that her daddy was in heaven, the version of herself with the daughter and no Castle had cried when she explained it, how a bad, bad man took the little girl's daddy away on the day of mommy and daddy's wedding.

That's when Lanie had approached her with a tablet in her hand, a small, pill shaped thing about the size of the tip of Kate's pinky. The glass of water had still been sitting on the table, and with one glance at it, she had been brought back to a horrible time in her life when she had to take pills to fall asleep pretty much every night. Back when her PTSD was bad, and nightmares of the moment the bullet pierced her chest and the way her soul left her body had haunted her, the same way images of him haunt her in that very moment, the same way they haunt her now. Lanie had caught on quickly, and had pressed gentle, supportive fingers into the flesh of her shoulder to calm her down. _It's not a sleeping pill, Kate. It's a Melatonin tablet. It's the hormone that makes you sleep. It won't hurt you, Kate. Trust me, I take them all the time. It'll just help you fall asleep, _Lanie had explained in an equally rushed but calm tone, as if she was sure of what she was saying, but unsure of how she would react. As if by some miracle, she had let the tablet melt on her tongue. Not long after that, she had fallen asleep.

Lanie hadn't woken her up until about forty-five minutes ago, telling her she had to get up to get ready for the appointment. How exactly you get ready for an appointment with a Obstetrician you've never met to talk about a baby you've only _suspected _for about four hours—Dr. Thompson had agree to see her over what would usually be her lunch break—when you're barely ready to step outside is beyond her. But Lanie had quickly run a brush through her incredibly messy hair—looking at her then, you wouldn't of been able to tell that she actually _loves _her hair and cares a great deal about what it looks like—and let her borrow a slightly too big t-shirt and a pair of extremely loose sweatpants. It was better than the tearstained, wrinkled workout clothes she had been wearing for going on twenty-four hours, anyway.

And that brings her here, sitting in the hospital's waiting room surrounded by mostly women and a handful of men, some of the women heavily pregnant and reminding her of what her future might look like, especially the one who's sitting in the far corner of the room alone and looking awfully scared. She's not looking at them anymore though, only able to picture them based on what she remembers as her eyes remain closed, face buried into the palms of her hands. Her elbows dip into the flesh just above her knee almost painfully hard as she rests the majority of her upper-body weight on them. Her feet are pressed firmly against the floor, and she's determined not to cross her legs or fidget like she usually does. She has a feeling that if she lets herself, her nerves will take over and she'll be sitting here shaking like a chihuahua, or maybe crying again. Either way, she doesn't want to show these random people she's never met how scared and weak she is right now, just as much as she doesn't want to go into the doctor's office.

"Miss Katherine Beckett?" the nurse calls again. She can practically picture her looking around the rather crowded room for any sign of movement...or a reaction, which she's careful not to have. She doesn't want to be noticed, even though Lanie's hand is on her shoulder and her breath hot against her cheek as she tells her in no uncertain terms that she _has _to get up and _has _to see the doctor, to find out if she's pregnant, and to find out if she's okay, and if she is pregnant, if the baby's okay.

Truth be told, that's what scares her. Because now that she's had more time to think about it, she has a feeling in her gut, a clenching that tells her that she _is _pregnant. And right now, she's not sure if that's what she wants to hear. Right now, and especially if anything else goes wrong over the length of the investigation she's going to start so she can find her fiance, she's not in a position to care for a child, even an unborn one. She doesn't want to eat—and now that she thinks about it, that probably has more to do with the grief and the way she doesn't handle it very well than the nausea that seems to accompany it this time, a lot worse than it ever did back when her mom died. Lanie had to practically force her to drink a few sips of water, and to sleep, too. But with the nausea and a missed period—which she only realized she had missed after getting to this waiting room—and the clenching in her gut, she's half positive that she is carrying a child.

Her name is called again, and Lanie's voice is almost frantic in her ear as she once again tells her she _has _to get up. She looks up slightly, resting her right cheek in her right palm and catches her friend's gaze, letting her see the tears that are once again streaming down her cheeks. Lanie's eyes go wide with sympathy almost instantly, but her hand is still on her shoulder, squeezing as if to tell her she _still _has to get up and see the doctor. She buries her face in her hands again, pressing her fingers into her skin as she drags them down over her nose and cheeks, dragging the tears down with them. She wipes the remaining dampness of her face hastily before pushing herself to a standing position.

She tries to keep her head held high as she forces herself to walk. It's odd, not hearing the click of her heels as she walks. Part of her hates it, because the click of her heels is something she affiliates with power, authority and strength, like she has and puts on display at the precinct. But today, it's as if the lack of the soft sound echoing in her wake represents the lack of power and authority and strength she has right now. Right now, she's completely powerless over the situation—in regards to both her possible pregnancy and the fact that her fiance could be in Timbuktu, for all she knows. And she's certainly not strong.

The nurse—wearing scrubs as fancy as scrubs can get and way too much makeup—ushers her and Lanie into a room. She doesn't miss the strange, disapproving look they get, but doesn't feel the need to clarify the fact that she and Lanie are not _together_. She doesn't care what the nurse thinks of her, anyway. And she certainly doesn't want to get into a conversation about why her fiance isn't the one here with her. She's already thanked Lanie for somewhat explaining the situation to Dr. Thompson, fearing she'd be unable to do it herself without breaking down.

The nurse measures her and takes her blood pressure she says it's a little high, to which Kate bitterly responds that she's been a little stressed lately. She asks her a bunch of questions like is she smokes, the last time she had caffeine—which is a Kate Beckett record-breaking over thirty-six hours ago—and if she's only any medication. The woman's blond hair bounces as she turns to glare at her every time the answer comes out as a bitter, sharp, single syllable word. She just glares back, the cop in her able to intimidate the peppy nurse. The blondie seems happy when she finally closes the door to the doctor's examination room behind her, and she's pretty happy, too.

She takes a seat next to Lanie and waits, her mind running wild with thoughts as she leans her head back against the wall behind her. She doesn't know what to feel, what to think, what to want and what to fear. Because she _wants _to be pregnant just as much as she fears it. And she _feels _down and depressed and like everything is hopeless even though she really thinks there's a shot that he's out there and alive. And she _feels _like, if she had to, she could manage doing the pregnancy and motherhood thing of her own, but she most definitely thinks that, if he's dead, she's going to be the worst mother on the face of the planet and that she'll fall apart at the seams.

Her thoughts are broken when the door opens, and a young, but not too young woman walks in. She's dressed in a pair of black slacks and a forest green button down. It reminds her of how she usually dresses for work, except for the fact that the doctor is wearing flats instead of heels. The doctor's hair is swept up in a ponytail, a side bang fluttering across her forehead. Her hair is a light, almost golden-brown, bordering on dirty-blonde. Her eyes are chocolate brown and hold a kindness she can't really find the words to describe. Her makeup is minimal. The labcoat she's wearing and the stethoscope around her neck are the only indications that she's a doctor.

"Hello, you must be Kate," she greets, her voice soft and kind, matching the look in her eyes. She sends a smile Lanie's way, a simple way of greeting her friend without getting involved in conversation. And her footsteps sound softly as she walks across the room, passing in front of the two women sitting in her office, and takes a seat at the computer next to Kate. She crosses her legs as soon as she sits, sitting comfortably in the office chair, turning to look at the two of them. "So, you think you're pregnant?"

* * *

The tree bark is rough and she can feel it through her shirt as she leans back against the tree. Her back is arched slightly into it, seeking something to rest on. Her loose hair keeps getting tangled up in the hollows and grooves of the complex layering of cells. Her legs are crossed indian style, the sweatpants she's wearing brushing the grass she's sitting every time she moves them. Her head is leaned back against the tree's strong trunk, her eyes drifting closed on multiple occasions as she attentively watches the main entrance to the park, searching for a pair of redheads that should be arriving any minute. Her hand rests on her lower abdomen, cradling the spot where her child lays.

She's pregnant. Dr. Thompson confirmed it for her about an hour ago. She had Lanie drop her off here, at the park, and she's been sitting here, against the tree, ever since. She needed—still needs—time to think, to gather her thoughts and make sense of them the best she can. And she wanted to do this alone, to sort through her mind and figure out what she feels, thinks, wants and fears. She needed to do this without a worried gaze following her every move, or a hand on her shoulder as if they're trying to get rid of the worry, because it doesn't work. Sometimes, a girl just needs to sort through everything going on inside her and figure it—whatever _it _is—out by herself. So that's what she did, or tried to, anyway.

The first thing she saw upon entering the park was the swing set, so familiar and usually somewhere she goes for comfort, for _him. _It was empty earlier, just like it seems to be every time they need it, just like it still is, now. That's where she told him about the wall. That's where she decided the wall was down, and to give him, _them, _a chance. That's where he proposed, ensuring the wall would stay down forever. That's where they met up when she was a fugitive, and he promised to help her, no matter what. That's where she always imaged telling him she was pregnant. Now that she is pregnant, that wish won't come true, so she had snapped her gaze away from it and headed for the tree instead.

It was almost funny_, _what she had thought upon sitting down, resting her back against the treetrunk for the first time. For the past few years, coming to this very park with him, she had wondered if the third swing on the swing set would always be empty when they came. She would let her eyes travel past him and glance at the swing that hung empty on the other side of him, sometimes imagining bringing a child here to play, unbeknownst to said child that this place holds great meaning to their parents, to their very existence. But as she sat there thinking, she wasn't wondering if the third swing would ever be occupied. The paperwork she had tucked into the pocket of the sweatshirt next to her—Lanie had made her bring it with her before she let her out of the car, telling her it barely ever came out of her car anyway—was proof that there would be a child to one day play there. So, she had wondered if the middle swing would ever be occupied by her fiance again.

It had been hard to think about, the possibility of coming here and having her swing, and their child's swing with an empty gap in between the two, the place where the child's father would have sat, had he ever been given the chance. Somehow, though, it had reminded her that there was still a chance for the child's father to sit on the swing and rock gently back and forth, reminded her that he might not be dead. Bad things could happen, have happened and will happen again, but they've overcome them all in the past, and they could overcome this one, too. And he could come and help her protect the child from the bad things that could and would happen in the future. It had made an undeniable, unshakeable sense of protectiveness over her unborn baby fall upon her. It had been then that the palm of her hand had found her stomach.

Those thoughts had brought her back to her appointment with Dr. Thompson, to the words the kind woman had said. _I'm a little worried, Kate. Lanie told me a little bit about your situation, and I can't even imagine how stressful it must be, but stress can be harmful to an unborn baby, _she had spoken, soft and calm. Of course, Kate had already known that the stress she's under is bad for the baby—it's bad for her, for goodness' sake—but hearing it had made everything that much more real. _Now, I know I can't tell you to stop worrying so much or to calm down, but I do want you to avoid putting any physical stress on your body, _she had explained, making Kate thankful that she wasn't one of those delusional people who thought worry went away with a snap of her fingers. And she had agreed to staying out of danger, which means no field work, no running after bad guys, and no being there when and if they find her fiance. The baby comes first, though. It's what Castle would want.

Of course, she's still Kate Beckett. She will always be Kate Beckett, and pregnant or not, she won't like being off the field, especially when they're trying to find _her _fiance. And that's what she had told Dr. Thompson, making it clear that she would stay off the field, but that there was absolutely _no way_ she would just sit on the sidelines and not do _anything _while her fiance was somewhere out there needing to be rescued. Dr. Thompson had practically laughed. _I know. From what I've heard about you, detective, being on the sidelines would only stress you out more, _she had said. It had taken her a minute to remember that most of New York, most of the United States, knew who she was since she slapped handcuffs on Bracken's wrists. She had smiled and nodded. Dr. Thompson was right.

Smiling at the fact that she had the doctor's permission to help with the investigation, even if it was just doing work on the computer or using her insight on his life, she had let her mind drift to what exactly might be going on. The first person that came to mind had been 3XK, _Jerry Tyson. _With Bracken in jail now, she knew he didn't still have the resources to know about their last minute change in wedding plans...and venue. And they didn't really have anyone else in their life wanting to harm him...or them, she figured.

_He watched us, Kate. He watched us make love, _Castle had told her once, so he definitely had the resources to know. And though Tyson was a serial killer, not a kidnapper, something else Castle had once told her about the man had stuck, and made her think that he could be behind everything: _He likes planning. He doesn't do this to kill, he does this to orchestrate a carefully created plan. _

She sighs at that thought again, letting her head fall back against the tree, debating just laying down in the grass and waiting. Calling Alexis had been a hard decision to make, her mind still coming up with images where Alexis despises her and blames her for everything—and with Tyson now her main suspect, it seems that much more plausible, since it's the fact that he works with her that's responsible for the fact that he even knows of Tyson. But there had been a hint of relief...almost...in the young woman's voice when she called, and she had agreed to meet without any venom in it, so she assumes Alexis isn't all that mad at her...yet. Just like she hopes Alexis won't be mad or disappointed to find out that she's going to be a big sister.

Her eyes widen as, suddenly, a pair of red-heads appear at the park's entrance, unmistakably Martha and Alexis. She sits up straighter upon seeing them, watching as they search for her. She's not in the mood to get up and go see them, or to bring attention to herself by calling out to them, so she just sits and waits for them to spot her. It's not like she's hiding, anyway. She's just not standing or sitting anywhere blatantly obvious. She sees the moment Alexis sees her, the way she motions with a tilt of her head to where she's sitting so Martha will follow her. It doesn't take long for them to appear in front of her, towering over her from where they stand.

She still doesn't want to get up, so she pats the ground next to her. Alexis glances down at the nicely groomed grass before shrugging and dropping to sit cross-legged as well. She's wearing something rather similar to Kate's outfit, an oversized Avengers t-shirt tied in the back with an elastic. She recognizes it as one of Castle's—she's washed it a few times. Accompanying her t-shirt is a pair of simple black leggings and a pair of running shoes. Martha, being Martha, is still dressed...fancier than the other two. She wears a navy blue pencil skirt, a yellow, ruffled blouse and a jacket that matches her skirt in color scheme, curly, floral designs in lighter colors creating a complex design that screams Martha. The older woman eyes the ground suspiciously before kneeling on the ground, smoothing the material of her skirt as she does so.

Silence falls upon the trio. There's no need for pleasantries or small talk, none of them are in the mood for it. They all know what's going on, what there is to talk about, why they're meeting in the park. _I want to see you guys...you and Martha, _she had told Alexis when she called earlier. _I have things to tell you, that can't be said over the phone. _Obviously, Alexis had agreed, or else she wouldn't be in the park right now. All three of them know that this is about _him, _about fiance, father, son, about Castle. The past forty-eight hours don't leave room for talking about anything else, but none of them want to talk about it, about him, about the accident...what she now knows was also a kidnapping. Her heart aches at simply the thought of her fiance, the father of her child, Alexis' father, Martha's son _somewhere_...being held against his will, upset, alone, scared…and possibly tortured.

She squeezes her eyes shut to rid them of the tears, some of the salty liquid falling onto Lanie's sweatpants. Her eyes flutter open and she looks up to meet Alexis', forest green meeting pale blue. She notes the way the pale blue orbs look tired and somber, grief she recognizes all too well shining in them. She can tell by the look in them that the younger girl hasn't slept since yesterday, at least, not much. She hates seeing her almost-step-daughter like this, the grief she went through herself, fifteen years ago evident in her eyes. Unlike she was at Alexis' age, Alexis is as close to an angel as young adults come. She's sweet, kind, obedient, determined and disciplined, unlike any twenty-year-old she's ever met. Alexis doesn't deserve this pain, to feel the ache in her heart, the gaping hole in it that comes with the loss of a parent.

"You're dad's not dead," she blurts it out before she can really think it through, wanting to take some of the pain away, some of the grief away. She mentally slaps herself for saying it like that, though, stuttering her correction: "I- I mean he wasn't… It's not him… It wasn't him. In- in the car, it wasn't him, your dad." Tears spring to Alexis' eyes instantly, her hand finding her grandmother's in the space between them, fingers fumbling to hold onto Martha's loving hand. She smiles at the sight, silently wishing for nothing more than to be able to truly tell them that he's _alive _and coming home to them—not only for them, but selfishly, as well. As she watches Alexis and Martha cry in relief, tears pricking at her own eyes, her hand once again slips under the material of her shirt. Her head falls back against the tree's trunk, again, and she lets her own tears of relief fall.

* * *

**Sorry if this is kinda confusing. I know there's a lot of looking back on conversations, but I'm trying to express Kate's emotions over the situation, not really everyone else's. I guess, the general conversations, in my opinion, in this story, aren't as important as the key parts of them that arise whirlwinds of emotion in Kate.**

**Anyway, let me know what you think. Also, my sister is in from out of town for the week or so, so the next chapter might be slightly delayed. **


	6. Chapter 6

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

It's about a half hour after Martha and Alexis leave that she manages to push herself up and off the ground. Families have come and gone since she first got here and took her place at the bottom of the tree, only a mother and her daughter—who look almost _exactly _alike—remaining from the group of people that had been here when she first got here. The young girl, looking to be no older than six, runs around the park, climbing ladders and sliding down slides while her mother sits on a nearby bench, reading a book. As much as it makes her heart ache to imagine the future, she can imagine it one day being her sitting in this very park, her child playing happily.

Her hand still rests under the material of her shirt, her thumb tracing mindless circles into the skin of her stomach, her fingers curling protectively around the place where her child lays, safe and healthy. It's crazy, how things went so wrong, how things are still so wrong, how her world is upside down. It's just as crazy how bittersweet something that should be so undeniably _good _can be, how conflicted she is over her feelings towards this baby. The love is there already, confirmed by the way she sobbed when Dr. Thompson confirmed everything is okay, and when she told her she's worried about the stress of her current situation. The love is undeniable, the joy lingers in the pit of her stomach, in the slight upturn of the corners of her lips. The fear, the grief, the uncertainty, the ache in her heart that won't go away without _him _is like the canyon between the way she feels now, and the way she wants to feel.

Her stomach clenches as she turns away from the happy little girl, eyes drifting closed as she takes a moment to just stand there and compose herself—the warm May breeze hitting her face, the soft rustling of leaves barely audible over children's screams of joy, the grass painting the ground green. A few warm, silent tears slip from the corners of her eyes as fall to the ground right before she opens them again. With a deep breath, she takes a step away from the tree, towards the swings.

She feels like a character in one of those sappy, cliche scenes in movies as she runs the back of her fingers up the cold metal post that holds the swings upright. Her eyes land on her swing briefly before traveling to Castle's, the black rubber being warmed by the warm late-spring sun as the seat remains empty. She takes a step towards it, than past it and sits down in her own swing, the seat warm through the material of Lanie's sweatpants. She takes another deep breath and shifts her gaze back to his swing, being transported back in time as a memory washes over her.

_Four times, _she thinks. This is he fifth time she comes here during an important point in her life, in their relationship. Only one of those other four was spent here alone, sitting on her swing and looking longingly at his. She remembers the way the cold rain had hit her head and face as she glanced up at the sky and silently prayed that she wasn't too late. She can feel the ache in her heart and the clench in her gut, all too familiar to her feelings that day. The lack of badge or gun in her pocket reminds her that she had just resigned from her job when she came here in the pouring rain, trying to make sense of thoughts that wouldn't stop racing. The way she stares longingly at his swing now making her breathing shallow, the memory of thinking she'd never see him again mixing with the fear of never seeing him again.

Her mind drifts to her conversation with Alexis and Martha as her eyes drift closed again, her lips parting slightly as she breathes through her mouth. _I think he's been kidnapped, and that the person who did it used the car accident to buy some time, _she had explained once the initial rush of relief had faded, leaving three scared and desperate women sitting on the ground in a family park. _Please, Kate, tell me you have an idea of who did this, _had begged the younger woman, hand still holding her grandmother's knuckles turning white. _Yeah, well, I'm not so sure you want to know, _she had said, her fingers curling against her stomach the same way they are now, protectively, instinctively. _Alexis, Martha, I think 3XK has Rick._

Tears had once again been shed, 3XK being no mystery to the Castle family. Though she and Castle try to keep the more gruesome parts of their jobs to themselves, Jerry Tyson had made that extremely difficult. By the time she was involved in family crisis, when Tyson struck after she and Castle had gotten together, she learned that Martha and Alexis were both well aware of who the Triple-Killer was. That's how she learned about how much their first encounter with Tyson had really affected him, not in detail, of course, but she got to hear about how he had pulled away, about how much he hated any mention of that time in his life.

She knows how hard their second encounter with Tyson hit him. She's the one that sneaked into holding after her shift to promise that she believed him, believed in him. She's the one that helped him when he was branded a fugitive, the same way he helped her only two weeks ago when she was given the same title. She's the one that brought him home that night, led him to bed after his mother and daughter were done hugging him and celebrating his release. She's the one that pushed him down on the bed that night and crawled over him to lay right on top of him, wrapped her arms around him and promised that it was over and he was safe. But it was never really over.

_But 3XK is a serial killer, so you guys have no idea where he is, _had deduced Alexis, tears welling in her eyes again. She knows Alexis, and knew the young woman is far too intelligent to ever lie to, especially about something like that. She was right, of course. Jerry Tyson is a serial killer, and if anyone knew where he was, he'd be in prison and not freely walking the streets of the United-States. She was right, they had—still have—no idea where he is, where Castle is. She knows from experience that often, in cases like these, the victim doesn't get out alive, and if they do, it's because they were extremely, _extremely_ lucky or because their assumptions were wrong. _Yeah, pretty much, _she had admitted, soft and scared, just like the redhead that had been sitting across from her. _But we have to have faith that we'll find him. And we really have to trust Ryan and Esposito._

Her fingers curl a little more as she remembers the next part of their conversation, the shakiness of her voice, the nervous excitement in Alexis', the sharp intake of breath from Martha. It had been such a bittersweet moment, so unlike she had imagined it going before today. _And, uh...there's one more thing you guys should know, _she had said, hesitating when their eyes widened in fear, when she saw on their faces what was undoubtedly on her own when she came to this realization. _I'm pregnant. _

Two pairs of matching blue eyes had looked back at her, wide with shock and excitement, tearful with fear and sympathy, shining in the sunlight illuminating the park. Lips pulled upwards in quivering smiles, joy tainted by pain, sadness, grief. Hands still clenched tightly together in the grass, knuckles free of any blood with the effort they were using to hold onto each other. Young blue eyes falling to her stomach, curious, excited, filled with pain. Wise blue eyes locking on hers, questioning and sympathetic.

As she looked back at them, eyes wandering between _almost_-step-daughter and _almost_-mother-in-law, fearing their reaction, their words, the looks on their faces. The heel of her hand pressed against her stomach harder than before, fingers loosely pitching her skin as she held onto the very spot where her child lay as if it was her only lifeline. Tears had sprung to her eyes, wet and vision-blurring, distorting the people in front of her, the children, the play structures, the trees, the sympathy filled eyes. Her heart had been pounding in her chest until it felt like it was on the verge of bursting. When finally, Alexis spoke—_I'm really going to be a big sister?—_her voice holding awe that she silently wished heard had held when she asked Dr. Thompson is she's really going to be a mother.

The fingers of her free hand curl around the chain that holds up the swing, pinky poking at the hole in one of the metal rings. The metal is cool against her palm, a stark contrast to the way her face heats up at the memories, the way her whole body seems to to be slowly warming in the May sun. It grounds her, keeps her from completely losing it again, from losing her grasp on reality and breaking down in another fit of scared, somber sobs. As her toes kick at the sand beneath her feet, she continues to grasp the chain, letting her mind drift to the final part of their conversation.

_You guys can't talk about it at the loft or on the phone. You guys can't mention 3XK, our investigating, our suspicions...or my pregnancy, _she had warned, making two pairs of orange eyebrows furrow in confusion. She hadn't been surprised that Castle left that part out of his synopsis of their previous encounters with Tyson. He always tried to protect his family from the worst, and that part had been by far one of the worse. _Tyson has a history of watching us...in the loft, _she had explained, voice soft, somber and barely above a whisper—_He watched us, Kate. He watched us make love, _he had once told her, sounding scared, sad, violated.

_If he knows we're investigating, he could run, or...you know. And, I don't want him to know that I'm pregnant because, since he watched us, he knows how I work. He knows that, when something's personal, I don't let it go or let anyone do the work for me. If he doesn't know I'm pregnant, he could be expecting me, and seeing, say...Esposito and Ryan could catch him off guard, _she had explained, trying to keep things as logical yet vague as possible. But Alexis had nodded, and Martha had reached out to take her hand. The older woman had congratulated her on the baby, thanked her for trying to keep them safe and in the loop and trying to bring him back and had promised that they'd do anything in their power to help her, even keep their mouths shut.

Right after they left, she had called Lanie—using her phone, which Alexis had also brought to her—asking her to call Ryan and Esposito and to tell them to meet her in the park, telling her best friend to come as well. She's been waiting here ever since, waiting to speak to her friends, the only people she trusts enough to help her through this, to save her fiance.

She runs her hand over the lower part of her belly. She hasn't stopped touching the almost imperceptible swell there since she told Martha and Alexis that Rick's body wasn't in the car. Perhaps it's those instant, maternal instincts that people talk about, the urge to keep her child safe and shielded from the horrible world that surrounds them, from the reality she faces every day. One thing she knows for her sure is that it makes her feel connected...to Castle, to their child. It reminds her that she has something _so _much to live for, that there is hope and innocence and a chance that everything will be okay.

It gives her something _happy _to think about, she realizes, thumb rubbing a small circle into her skin. As she watches the kids at the park—new ones arriving now, older ones as the school day comes to an end—squealing in delight, laughing and smiling and having fun, it reminds her that _that _will be her child one day. It reminds of her the love they share, and of the things they've overcome to get to this point, reminds her that they've been through so much and survived, sometimes thrived, and that _this _will be just another thing on their list of near-death experiences. And it reminds her that there is something to fight for, someone who needs her to bring him back even more than she needs him, a child so innocent that should most definitely not lose their father. It's more motive to fight for him, a future that they can and will have as long as she keeps the faith and holds onto hope, the hope their child gives her.

She blinks to once again rid her eyes of the tears prickling at them, drops of water running down the sides of her nose briefly before she wipes them away. She blinks again before focusing on the park's entrance, a sense of deja-vu washing over her as she remembers watching the entrance for Castle before, and for Alexis and Martha earlier. She blinks away the memories, trying to keep her mind as clear as possible for when the boys and Lanie get here. Ryan might of seen her as a sobbing, vomiting mess yesterday, but now that some of the stress, fear and fatigue has faded, she feels _a lot _better, and wants to show that to the boys. The last thing she wants right now is for them to kick her off the off-field part of the case, too.

She removes her hand from under her shirt and grasps the swing's chain in both fists, using her arms to pull herself back to her feet just as two kids approach. A slow churning in her stomach had began, the familiar beginning to nausea. And as the children approach, giggling as blonde pigtails drifted in the wind and blonde curls bounced against the boy's forehead, she knows they'll sit down on the swings. And she's one hundred percent sure she's not ready to see someone else sit on _his _swing. She knows, in the pit of her churning stomach, that seeing that would be what makes her snap...and empty her stomach onto the park's nicely groomed lawn.

She takes a few steps away from the swing set before closing her eyes and willing the storm in her stomach to calm. With the motion of the swing no longer affecting her, it happens quicker than she expected, and she reopens her eyes and glances around the park. The boys and Lanie should be getting here soon, she decides, even though she has no idea what time it is.

She looks up at the sky, blue as ever—_skyblue, _symbol for peace, serenity, etherealness and infinity, reminding her that he promised her _always—_her eyes landing on the sun, drifting west as night grows nearer. She assumes it's already late-afternoon—she doesn't have to motivation to take out her phone and check, since time of the day is really insignificant right now. She blinks as she looks back down, the dark blue silhouette of the sun flashing in her vision, slowly fading. She blinks one last time before walking back towards the tree she only recently vacated, pressing her back to it's strong trunk as her eyes once against land of the park's entrance. Eventually, she grows tired of standing—her body is still weak and tired—and she sits back down, mirroring her earlier position. She continues watching the entrance until Ryan arrives, shortly followed by Lanie then Esposito.

* * *

She pulls back the thin, pale grey blanket, revealing the clean, white couch cushion. Still holding the blanket up, she sits down and almost instantly collapsing onto her side, the blanket fluttering and landing on top of her in a slightly crumpled mess as her head hits the pillow Jenny had taken out for her. Her eyes drift closed instantly, fatigue, both physical and emotional exhaustion taking over, the day finally coming to an end and allowing her to get some sleep beyond her nap at Lanie's place earlier. And yet, in true Kate Beckett fashion, her mind runs wild with thoughts and memories and possibilities...to the conversation she, the boys and Lanie had earlier.

She opens her eyes again and glances around the room, the TV is off, the lights all off as well, except for the dimmed one in the kitchen. Sarah Grace had fallen asleep at around ten, and Ryan and softly told Jenny to go to bed, too. Just like Castle didn't want Martha and Alexis involved back when he was at the center of Tyson's attacks, Ryan doesn't want Jenny involved in this investigation...just like she doesn't want Martha and Alexis involved now. She could see it in the pained look in his eyes as he watched his wife walk away, hear it in the gentle tone of his voice as he told her goodnight. He has taken a second to compose herself. Obviously he was worried about more than just Castle, which was completely understandable considering the guilt he's carried for letting Tyson get away, nearly three years ago now.

He had gotten up and walked into the dining room, returning with a notepad and a pen. He had taken his spot next to her, already flipping the notepad open to a blank, lined page. With a press of his thumb, he clicked out the retractable tip of the ballpoint pen. The notepad resting on his thighs, he quickly scribbled down _Jerry Tyson_ at the top of the page. Seeing the name written like that, rather than hearing it like she had been all morning, triggered something in her, an anger that she struggled to swallow back, pain that made tears well up in her eyes. They'd worked so hard to catch him on more than one occasion, and he's outsmarted them every single time. Who's to say he won't outsmart them again?

He had quietly comforted her, telling her as if reading her mind that this time will be different, that this time they'll catch him, and like last time that Castle was his target, they'd make sure he got out of it safely. A few seconds later, she had made up her mind and refused to let fear get the best of her—fear renders her vulnerable and diminishes her ability to think straight, and her chances of finding her fiance. From there, they had ran through _everything _they know about Jerry Tyson, from the fact that he framed his friend for multiple murders to the fact that he sneaked into holding without being seen or caught on tape. She cries as she talks about the time he tried to get Castle killed in prison, as she confesses that they had been _watched_, her fears that Alexis and Martha are being watched right now. He comforts her, still promising that they'll catch him and make sure everyone is safe, that he and Lanie and Esposito are all here for her and won't stop until they catch Tyson and bring Castle home to her and the rest of his family.

Back at the park, earlier today, they had come to the consensus that their number one suspect was Tyson, no question about it. They had agreed that there was no way this was a kidnapping for ransom, since someone who kidnaps for ransom wants the victim's loved ones to know that the victim's alive and well. Kidnappings based on a wish for money, they know from experience, are and will always be so much easier to solve. Anyway, they knew it was someone directly targeting Castle, or someone close to him. After quickly ruling out Bracken—not because he's in prison, since people often rule operations from behind bars, but because those people are never prepared for last minute change of plans, such as their last minute change in venue—they had come to the conclusion that no one had real motive, besides Tyson.

The conversation would of been much shorter than it had been, had it not been for the underlying pain and emotion and the fact that it was—still is—so difficult for any of them to talk about Castle as their victim. Their knowledge, as cops, is both a blessing and a curse, and she known that from experience—even now, as she remembers their conversations, her mind drifts to past cases, to statistics and survival rates. She tried—still tries—not to think about it, tries to hold onto hold that Tyson wouldn't kill him so soon, not after going through the effort of faking the car accident. But, by the time they had parted, agreeing to jot down everything they remembered from their past encounters with Tyson, it had been a little over twenty-four hours since the car crash. She had tried not to think about how drastically the survival rates dropped after the first day, as she silently got into the car with Ryan. She also had let her hand discreetly fall to her stomach...she still hadn't told the boys about the baby.

She blinks, her mind ignoring the parts of the evening between when she left the park with Ryan and when he sat down on the couch. Those parts aren't important. They won't help find Castle, even though they are happier moments. Jenny had been cooking dinner when they first got back to the apartment, Sarah Grace on the kitchen table in her bouncer. Ryan had walked over to Jenny and kissed her cheek—her heart had almost burst as she had silently wished to still have that with Rick, one day—and she had sat down at the dining table. Ryan had left Jenny side and pressed a kiss to his daughter's head. She had watched, once again finding herself longing to have that, a family, her baby and Castle.

She had eaten dinner with them, very little, but she had still eaten. Ryan looked surprised to see her actually ingesting food. After years of working together and building a friendship, she's not surprised that he didn't expect her to eat. In fact, she had even surprised herself by the wish to eat, knowing it could make her sick. It did. About an hour later, her stomach emptied itself. She had been even more surprised to find that, even after throwing up, she had sat down with a glass of water, determined to keep her child safe and healthy. Jenny had looked her up and down, eyes eventually landing on the blonde baby girl who had been in her arms at that point.

She sighs softly, knowing now that Jenny knows about the baby, even though she nor confirmed nor denied it when they had sat across from each other in the living room earlier. She smiles to herself as she remembers the rest of that evening, before Sarah Grace fell asleep. Jenny had gently placed her niece in her arms. At five months old, the baby girl is old enough to sit up on her own, and the weight of her small, familiar body against her abdomen had been comforting, a reminder of all the good things yet to come, no matter what happens with this case. Eventually, when Sarah Grace had started getting sleepy, she had shifted the baby from her lap to set her against her chest, the little girl's head resting on her shoulder. That's how she fell asleep.

She smiles, her eyes drifting closed again as she curls a little more into herself, her hand carefully caressing the skin of her stomach. She's held Sarah Grace so many times over the past few months, cradled her as a newborn, played with her as she grew up. As much as she had claimed to not be a baby person, right after meeting her little niece she had been forced to rethink that statement. Ever since, Castle has enjoyed teasing her about ever claiming to not seeing the appeal in babies, considering how absolutely in love with Sarah Grace she is. But earlier, holding her had been...different, somehow. It had gotten her thinking about eventually holding her baby that way, made the excitement outweigh the fear for one of the first times since she found out about the baby.

Now, though, the fear is outweighing the excitement, as every detail they've remembered about their past encounters with runs through her mind. She remembers the way Tyson had wrapped his arm around her, holding her against him as he pressed his gun into her ribcage. The breath she lets out is strangled, her hand traveling up her side, her fingers spanning the area. She remembers it clearly, the metal end of the barrel pressing against her side as he told Castle he wanted him to watch her die. But now, _oh God, _now, six inches lower—her hand travels the small space—and it's right where…

She whimpers softly as she shoots up on the couch, her breathing even shallower now that it's hit her. Of course, she hadn't been planning on going out on the field, even though she's usually unstoppable in that aspect—her mind briefly flashes to the time she hung off the roof, only a day after Castle tried to get her to stay safe and not go after Maddox—but now, she doesn't even want to step within a hundred mile radius of Tyson. Her ribcage is about six inches above the place where her child lays. He points the gun six inches lower, pulls the trigger and she might have a chance at survival, but her baby wouldn't.

The tears begin to stream down her face again at the thought of losing the baby because she did something reckless, something stupid. And she swallows back a sob, hoping to not keep Ryan or Jenny up again tonight. She feels shiver run down her spine and she glances around the living room...knowing she's alone, but now scared of what could happen, of how dangerous this is not only for him, but for her and for their innocent little one who's depending on her. She brings her hand up to wipe away some of the tears away before letting it fall back to her side.

The fingers of her left hand splay across her side, fingertips digging into the skin there, pressing into the small valleys between her ribs. Her right hand is once again under her shirt, the loose cotton falling easily over her hand, wrist and forearm. She rubs small circles into her flesh with the heel of her palm, silently promising to do everything in her power to keep her child safe. It's a promise that plays through her mind like a mantra as her breath escapes her is slow, stuttered breaths, sobs swallowed back and tears rolling down her cheeks. And she just sits there, crying to herself almost silently as she vows to always take care of her baby.

By the time she manages to calm down, eventually finding it in her to take slow, steady breaths. She knows she won't fall asleep...at least, not right away. And with her insecurities and fears still lingering in the back of her mind, she needs reassurance that people can actually do this, keep a child safe, despite the danger that surrounds them in the world. So, she pushes herself up off the couch, the soft cushions offering little resistance against her hands. She feels wobbly on her own two legs at first, her body once again drained. Once she finds her strength, she quietly walks down the hallway and slips through the open crack of Sarah Grace's door.

For a minute, she feels odd, sneaking into the baby's room to watch her sleep. But the minute her eyes land on the little girl in the crib, her heart melts and she's reminded of why she's here in the first place. Her hand remains on her stomach as she looks down at her niece. The baby girl looks so peaceful in her crib, she thinks to herself. The soft, baby pink onesie she's wearing looks warm and cozy. Her eyes are close, eyelids fluttering as she dreams. Her red lips are parted slightly as she breathes through them. Her hands are clenched in loose fists, sitting at either side of her head. She looks...happy...perfect, even. She feels the tears stinging her eyes as she glances down at her still practically-flat stomach, imagining the baby in the crib one day being her own.

Her mind drifts to images of exactly that. She pictures a baby with brown hair and blue eyes, resting their little head on her shoulder as she runs her hand across their back and takes in the perfection that would be their child. She pictures Alexis in the hospital, her red hair a stark contrast against the room's white walls, holding a tiny baby wrapped in a white blanket, cradling the newborn in her arms. She pictures her dad and Martha cooing over the child, agreeing that they had the cutest grandchild in the world, debating what the baby got from their respective children. And even though it makes her cry because there's still such a high possibility that he would never see any of this, she imagines him sitting at her bedside, pressing his lips to the back of her hand as they both watch with tear-clouded eyes.

She feels her whole body begin to hum with desire to have that, to have that family she pictures now as she looks down at Sarah Grace. She wants Alexis to hold her little brother or sister and smile in recognition of the features they share, courtesy of their father. She wants her dad to tear up and tell her that her baby is so, _so _beautiful. She wants Martha to go around telling everyone about her incredible grandchild, the same way she _knows _she tells everyone about how incredible Alexis is. She wants Lanie to go on a rampage of 'I told you so's, smiling and laughing with her as they think about how far she's come. She wants the boys to make fun of her for being all maternal, her natural instincts kicking in at merely the sight of her child. She wants Castle to be next to her, telling her how _extraordinary _she is, in his eyes, in the eyes of their little one, pressing soft kisses to her lips and promising her _always _all over again.

"Kate?" It startles her, breaks her out of her thoughts as she jumps and turns to the doorway, her eyes landing on Ryan. She instantly slips her hand out from under her shirt. She begins to stutter out an apology instantly, the way she feels her cheeks begin to heat up with color, evidence of her embarrassment at being caught in Sarah Grace's nursery, making her grateful for the fact that the lights are still off. He raises his hand to get her to stop trying to apologize, and she swallows thickly, swallowing back the rest of her words at the same time.

Without saying another word, he takes another step into the nursery, and then another until he's standing next to her at the edge of the crib. His eyes fall to his daughter, and she sees a small smile come across his face. She lets her eyes fall to the sleeping baby, too, and feels her own lips curve upwards in a smile. As if on instinct, her hand once again slips under her shirt. He sighs next to her, soft and borderline content. And she watches as her reaches into the crib, carefully cradling Sarah Grace in his large hands before lifting her small, relaxed body out of the crib. She looks up, smiling at the sight of him holding his daughter safe and warm against his chest.

"She can be...soothing, can't she?" he asks softly, looking up to meet her eyes. She nods slowly, her lips once again curling upwards. "She reminds you...us...that there's good out there. I come in here and see her when he have a really tough case," he admits, once again looking down at his little girl. When he looks back up at her, he holds the baby out. "Here, take her." She swallows thickly, fear once again rushing over her—for second, she remembers how nervous Ryan had been when holding Cosmo back when Jenny was still pregnant and wonders if this is what that feels like—but reaches out anyway. He gently sets the still sleeping baby in her arms, and she instantly brings her to her chest.

Once again, Sarah Grace's weight in her arms is comforting, warm and familiar and an image of her future, of what's to come. Smiling to herself, she brings her one hand to gently run the back of her fingers over the soft skin of Sarah Grace's cheek. The baby stirs, but doesn't wake, still warm and heavy in her arms. Like Ryan said, she reminds her that there is good in the world, that there are people so much better than Bracken or Tyson, better than her and Castle and even Ryan. There's people out there who haven't seen all the darkness the world has to offer. And as she holds Sarah Grace in her arms, her eyes drifting closed as she imagines her own child, she once again makes the promise to keep her child innocent and shielded from all the horrible things she's witnessed for as long as she possibly can.

"So, what had you so upset that you came in here?" his voice breaks her thoughts and she opens her eyes, her gaze landing on him.

She swallows thickly, not quite sure what to answer, why she didn't tell him everything earlier. And yet, when she looks back down at Sarah Grace, and then back up at him, she decides to tell him the truth. "I'm...pregnant." Her voice sounds shaky even to her own ears and she can hear the fear in it. "I, uh...I found out this morning...or, afternoon," she explains, eyes falling back to the sleeping child in her arms as she takes deep breaths in attempt to calm herself. Somehow, saying it out loud, seeing the way Ryan's eyes had widened, is making this whole thing _a lot _scarier. "I don't know if… I don't think I can do this without him," she admits.

He walks over to her, his fingers running over Sarah Grace's head as she keeps her eyes locked on the baby. She can feel his eyes on her, his worried gaze the same way she felt it in the car and as she sat on his bathroom floor recovering from bouts of nausea—which she now knows, thanks to Dr. Thompson, were stress-triggered bouts of morning sickness. She hates it, hates feeling weak, hates feeling the tears well in her eyes, hates seeing them fall, being soaked up by the material of Sarah Grace's onesie.

"You can, Kate. You'll make an amazing mother," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you might not have to, remember? He might still be out there. In fact, he probably is still out there," he continues, and she looks up to meet his gaze, even as her own vision is blurred by her tears. "And we're not going to give up, right?" She nods slowly, bringing her hand up to quickly wipe her tears.

"Do you think he's okay? Do you think we'll find him?" she asks, her breath shallow between words as she tries to breath through the fear, through the insistent urge to just _cry. _She pulls Sarah Grace even closer, releasing stuttering breaths as she stares down at the peaceful, oblivious face. Holding the baby is the only thing keeping her hand from shaking, her knees from giving out because it washes over her like a tsunami, the fear that she will have to do this on her own, that she'll have to try and raise a baby as well as Ryan and Jenny have raised Sarah Grace _alone, _without him. She doesn't even look up when he gently runs his hand down her upper arm, trying to comfort her.

"Kate, I don't know if we'll be able to save him, but I do know that we're the best team for the job."

* * *

**I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the readers who have followed this story up to this point. You guys have no idea how much it means to me that some people are enjoying this story.**

**Also, I promise that things will speed up, investigation wise, from here on out. **


	7. Chapter 7

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

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As he drifts out of oblivion, a groan of anything but pleasure escaping his throat on it's own accord, the first thing he's aware of is that something is not right. The second thing is that he missed his wedding and Kate will be so mad...or scared...or both. Because, even though his mind is kinda fuzzy right now and he's just waking up, he's positive he would remember marrying Kate. He's also positive that, if it was his wedding night or any of the days following, he wouldn't have been sleeping in an uncomfortable chair.

It's that thought that makes his eyes snap open, and he's suddenly aware of so much more, of how _not right _things are right now, of the fact that Kate might not be mad at him after all, and it hits him like nothing ever had before.

He's not sure if it's because of the overwhelming amount of information—and lack of—that his brain is trying to process right now or if it's been there the whole time and he's just now realizing it, but his head is pounding to the suddenly erratic beat of his heart. He closes his eyes again briefly in attempt to get it to stop, with no success whatsoever. There's also an ache in his neck, like the one he gets when he accidentally falls asleep at his desk. When he tries to raise his hands to massage the tense muscles, to rub the bridge of his nose and press his fingertips into his temples, though, his wrist comes in contact with a coarse and scratchy rope. He hisses softly in pain.

That brings him to his next realization, that both his wrists are bound to the armrests of the uncomfortable chair he's sitting in, rings of rope tight around his flesh, undoubtedly leaving marks. The scratches burn and sting, and he winces slightly he stills all movement, hoping to minimize the chances of getting more scratches, or of making the ones already there hurt more. His ankles are also tied to the chair, but the rope is over his socks, making the discomfort it causes minimal in comparison. The bindings are tight, leaving very, _very _little room for movement, even the twist of his hand to get slightly more comfortable making the rough rope cut into the sensitive skin of his wrist.

The chair he's sitting in is made of wood, he's also come to notice. And it must be old, or cheaply made or something, because he's positive he now has another scratch on his wrist from the uneven, horribly split material. It's wobbly, too. With a slight shift in the distribution of his weight, the back, left leg hits the ground, raising the frontal right one off the floor. He quickly decides that leaning back is more comfortable. And, since his movement is limited, it's rather easy to keep the chair in one position, without rocking back and forth too much. The back of it digs into his back, what feels like three planks pressing into it, making his lower back ache. For a brief moment, he wonders if the chair was homemade...because it certainly isn't something they'd be able to sell at an actual store.

He's still in his tux, in the white dress shirt, black pants and black socks. The jacket is gone, though, and he has no idea where it is. The bowtie is gone, too, no longer tied tightly around his neck like it was for the wedding. And his shoes are gone, his sock-clad feet pressing against the cold floor. The cuffs of his shirt are unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up just enough to leave his wrists bare beneath the rope wrapped around them. And the top button is undone, like he usually leaves his shirt after a big formal event, to be more comfortable. As much as it's not uncomfortable, he's glad he put the money towards an actual cotton dress shirt and an expensive tuxedo instead of buying a cheap polyester one. It's one of the perks of being a millionaire, and it's certainly paying off.

The room around him is dark, a window at the far end being the only source of light, and it's boarded up, leaving only the thin cracks between planks for light to seep in through. Very little light does, though, so he assumes it's either evening or very early morning. His eyes have already adjusted to the darkness, the room almost clear as he glances around, thankful that he's not blind folded or gagged. The room is dusty, he notes as he twists his neck to see the small particles floating where the light illuminates them.

The walls are covered in wallpaper with a floral, curly design that reminds him of his mother, the paper peeling off near the ceiling. The floor is cool, the cold seeping through the thin material of his socks and numbing the soles of his feet. Even though he can't really tell when he glances downwards, he assumes they're made of some kind of stone. In a corner of the room, in front of him and to his left, is a coil of rope and a pile of what looks to be some kind of fabric.

There's an odd odor that lingers in the air. It smells humid, making him believe the house either has or had some kind of water damage. The dust lingers in the air, high amounts of it tickling his nose and making him glad he doesn't have any allergies. But mainly, the room just smells old, as if it hasn't been inhabited in years. There's no signs of human life in the room, in the building whatsoever—no lingering scents of a woman's perfume or of a party gone overboard, of an incredibly _passionate _couple or of food recently cooked. And even though the scents that swirl inside are rather unpleasant, the gentle, almost indistinct scent of trees drifts through the small window at the far end of the room.

He jumps when a door he hadn't noticed creaks open, old and rickety, coming from behind him. The rope digs into his wrists and he hisses, settling back in his seat, leaning back so the rear leg of the chair hits the ground again. He keeps his eyes open staring ahead intently, focusing on the swirls that surround flowers on the faded wallpaper in front of him. The sound of heels click behind him, loud and echoing in the silence of the room, the sound sharp and cutting through the silence as heel meets stone. It reminds him of Beckett, the way her heels click behind her as she walks through the bullpen, head held high, proud and authoritative. The woman that appears in front of him, though, isn't Kate Beckett.

From this angle, the first thing his eyes land on is her midsection. Without touching it, he comes to the conclusion that her top is made of leather, the most-likely synthetic material pulled tightly over her abdomen. She's slim, very slim, her waist perhaps a size smaller than Kate's. The bottom of the shirt is loose, though, flowing out from the very bottom of her waist to the hem, which rests at her hips. His eyes drift down to follow the length of her legs, covered in what looks to be tight denim, either dyed black or a very, very dark blue. His gaze lands on her feet, her skin as pale as Alexis', a stark contrast against the black leather straps of her stilettos that wrap around her foot.

He swallows hard and lets his eyes travel the length of her body again, up her long legs, her abdomen and over her breasts, also covered in tight leather. The top is strapless, he notices, as his gaze once again lands on pale, porcelain skin. Her hair is dark, but not overly so. When he blinks and focuses on it, he sees a hint of copper color in it. The strands are curled and flow over her shoulders, bouncy and voluminous as if she _just _curled them. His eyes travel up a little more and he almost chokes on the air he's breathing in, coughs and then pulls in a stuttering breath.

The woman's lips are plump, covered in what looks to be a thick layer of pink lipstick. Her cheeks bones are prominent, even more so as she smiles down at him, looking completely satisfied with herself, with this situation. The slope of her nose is almost perfectly straight, brings his gaze up to land on her eyes. Her brows are almost pencil thin, perfectly symmetrical, dark lines standing out against her still pale skin. Her eyelashes are dark black, coated in a thick layer of mascara. Even in the darkness that surrounds him, daylight fading, barely shining through the cracks of the boarded window, he can see her piercing grey eyes, gleaming with satisfaction. He swallows hard again.

"Hello, Mr. Castle," she says finally, eyes landing on his. She draws out the words as she says it, already taunting him with the high, only slightly raspy tone of her voice. She's teasing him, knowing he knows _exactly _who she is. She's making sure he knows that this is her, that she's gotten the best of him and the she has the advantage as she looks down at him from where she stands. He doesn't give her the satisfaction of struggling against the restraints or of making a sound of displeasure. "Miss me?"

"Can't say I have, Dr. Nieman," he replies, keeping his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers. "Last time I saw you, or your office, to be exact, you left my fiance, my family, my team and I with a threat." He raises his brows, clenching his fingers around the armrests as he remembers how scared Kate had been when she heard the gentle sound of Vera Lynn's "We'll Meet Again" echo in the quietness of the loft that evening. He remembers holding her close and promising that next time, just like the past four times their fight against Jerry Tyson had been continued or rehashed, they'd beat him, they'd beat _them. _As he looks up at the redhead standing in front of him, he silently vows to keep that promise.

"Funny, considering you did spend your wedding night with me instead of with her," she points out, taking a step back and leaning against the wall, practically disappearing into the shadows. Her shape is still visible though, the outline of her black clothing and pale skin standing out against the faded, dull wall behind her. He knows, though, that she can still see him, has a feeling that she can see the blood drain from his face when she speaks. Of course, from the moment he woke up he knew that he hadn't spent his wedding night with Kate—hadn't even married her, for that matter—but the way Kelly said he had spent it with _her, _of all people, sends a shiver down his spine, even though he's almost completely positive that she doesn't mean that they spent the night the way he would've spent it with Kate.

"To bad for me," he counters, struggling to keep his voice steady as images of how beautiful Kate would've been on their wedding night come to mind, images of her spending what was supposed to be the best night of their life looking for him, alone and upset, images of what Kelly and Jerry might've done to him that night. "And you," he continues, forcing such thoughts back for the moment, trying his best to not let her get the best him. "I mean, it must be horrible to know that you kidnapped me and my night still would've been more eventful with her."

She chuckles, raising one of her stiletto clad feet off the ground and pressing it to the wall behind her, a click sounding through the room, echoing in his ears. "I know. I've seen how _eventful _your nights with her can be," she speaks, her steady voice holding the same hint of condescension as Tyson's had when he told him the exact same thing, using different, more straight-forward words. _You and Beckett making love, _he had said, eyes clear and bursting with life like so serial killer's ever should, looking at him, taunting him through the bars of the precinct's holding cell he had been in. This, though, this just proves they're still watching. The way she says it tells him she means recently, that she's not talking about the footage Tyson has of them from nearly two years ago.

He still distinctly remembers the night he told her that Tyson had seen them, _watched _them. He remembers the way she had been laying on top of him, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, comforting him in a way only she ever will. His arms had been wrapped around her, too, holding her as close as possible, getting comfort from her, trying to give some to her in return. It had been one of the most intimate moments of their relationship at that point, the unspoken agreement that they both needed that, the way she silently healed his wounds and put the pieces of him that had broken in those horrible days of doubt and fear back together with the caress of her hand, the gentle touch of her lips.

Her face had been buried in the crook of his neck, legs straddling his thighs, hair tickling his face when he finally spoke. _He watched us, Kate. He watched us make love, _he had whispered, his voice sounding small and broken even to his own ears. Her fingers at his nape had stilled, her whole body tensed in his arms, the entire weight of her resting on him. Soon enough her tears hand dampened his collar, and he never thought he would witness Kate Beckett cry like that, over something like that, but he held her tightly as she cried. Her whimpers had been soft near his ear, mumbles about how she felt so violated and how she couldn't believe he knew about them before their families and the boys and Lanie. It had been the only part of that evening that he had spent comforting her instead of the other way around.

They had never spoken of it again, except for the next day when they offered to go through the tapes they had found in Tyson's room, where they found the rest of the evidence that he had been framed. The tapes hadn't showed everything Tyson had filmed, most of them focused on things that would have helped Tyson with his plan. The tapes of _them_ weren't among the ones they sifted through. And, even though they were still hiding their relationship in the precinct at the time, he had pulled her close and told her that Tyson most likely didn't keep the tapes of their day to day lives just to watch again. It is the truth, too, since Tyson loves to plan his crimes, and he most likely spends most of his time doing so. The tapes were never found, and they never spoke of it again from there on out, even when they rehashed the details of their previous encounters with him.

"Did that strike a nerve, Mr. Castle?" asks Kelly, taking a step towards him this time, crossing her pale arms over her black leather clad chest. A smirk comes across her face as she looks down at him, victory sparkling in her eyes in one of the most disgusting, sick ways he's ever seen. And he's sat across from a lot of killers over the past few years, some that did it out of cold blood, some for revenge, some by accident.

And yeah, some had a sparkle in their eyes that said they were _proud _of what they did, but nothing compares to the one she has in her eye...besides Tyson's, and maybe Scott Dunn's and Sophia Turner's, perhaps a handful of others. It's a look that says they're more than proud of their actions, that seeing people suffer is all they want, that looking down at him tied to a chair, seeing Beckett's apartment explode, framing a man for multiple murders, it's not just what they want, it's what they live for. He doesn't understand how someone could ever find such pleasure in such horrible, terrifying, vile acts.

He swallows hard at the memories of the many deranged people they've met over the years, the people who have tried to take their lives multiple times and have failed. Dunn failed at killing Beckett...or, well, _Nikki_, as he liked to think. Sophia had failed at putting a bullet in their respective brains, falling to the ground dead before either of them did. Tyson failed at getting him in jail and killing him there, though he's probably the most successful of the bunch, since he keeps coming back and _haunting _them like no other killer, serial or not, has before. He's determined, though, to make sure he doesn't succeed, to make sure Nieman doesn't succeed, to keep his promise to Kate and not let this pair of psychopaths take their lives from them.

"You know, you'd think that, after following her around for four years, you'd jump at the opportunity to flaunt her," she speaks again, taking another step towards him, the click of her heals soft and still echoing, vibrating in the stale air that surrounds them. Her brows are now raised, thin black lines pulled towards her hairline in an expecting, urging way. Her arms still crossed over her chest, she shifts her weight to rest most of it on her left foot, pushing her hip out and arching her back in a way that tells him to try and challenge her, to try and defend himself. And defend himself he will.

"If that's what this is about, then you have to let me go so I can go flaunt my fiancée," he says, knowing that's so _not _what this is about. She scoffs, her breath escaping her in a quick, mocking breath as her brows raise even more. "But, you know, she's not here, so I can't really do anything about it now." He wants to cross his arms, challenge her back, come up with a better reply than _that_, but he's really stuck right now. His wrists dig into the rop, the more sensitive part of them pressed against rough wood, being scratched by the uneven surface. And, really, people can't blame him for not coming up with the best quips right now.

The main problem is, what he just said isn't even true. If he was out there right now, with Kate, he still wouldn't be so-called _flaunting _her. And it's not because he doesn't want to show her off to the world. No, he has the most beautiful, strong, dedicated and extraordinary fiancée in the world, and he would tell everyone on the face of the earth if he could. But Kate doesn't like to be flaunted.

They had been together for a year and eight months, engaged for said eight months, before she finally let their relationship go public, so the world knew he was _hers. _And as much as he knows she loves the fact that the world knows that she's his, she certainly doesn't feel the need to get caught by the paparazzi to prove it, or to have people watching her at her most vulnerable, at their most intimate. He accepts that, too, and would never go against her desire for privacy. Relationships are about compromise, and that's an easy one to make.

"How do you know she's not here?" Her voice breaks his thoughts like a stab to the heart. Pain at the idea of her being _here _ripples through him, starting in his chest and spreading like wildfire until his toes are tingling and his breaths are coming in short, shallow pants. It courses through his veins, pulses to the suddenly even more erratic beat of his heart as he tries to calm himself.

But she's right. He's here, and he's alone in _this _room, but he has no idea how big the whole building might be. He doesn't even know where he is. He could be in Canada or Europe or Africa, for all he knows. There could be a hallway just outside the creaky door that leads to another door, or many other doors, whose thresholds are the passage to other dark, smelly rooms with boarded up windows and peeling wallpaper. And in one of those rooms could be Kate, his lovely fiancée. Alexis could be here, and mother and even Jim or the boys and Lanie. He has no idea who else Tyson and Nieman have targeted, who else they took captive. He has no idea what's going on outside of these four walls. In fact, he doesn't even know what day it is.

So, really, who is he to say that Kate's not here. Tyson punished him by leaving him alive—it's so hard to believe it's been over three years since that happened—and getting away, leaving an extremely heavy weight on his shoulders, and with every single person he killed, the weight had gotten heavier. He had punished Ryan by giving the Chinese mob his gun, allowing them to kill with it, leaving Ryan with the guilt of knowing _his _gun killed at least one person. Tyson had tried to punish Kate—he had said it himself when he visited him in holding—by trying to make her live with the fact that her boyfriend was wrongfully convicted of murder and killed in prison, and she hadn't been able to prove him innocent.

"Is she?" he asks, his voice so quiet he barely hears himself. He can feel it waver, though, crack as he finishes higher than he intended. He can't help the fear that creeps up on him, finds it's way into his voice and seeps from it as he speaks, that makes his chest constrict at the thought of them holding the ones he loves the way they're holding him, hostage.

It suddenly dawns on him that, besides a few aches and scratches, he's rather unharmed. His throat is slightly parched, but he assumes he hasn't had anything to drink in a while. But there's no real pain, no cuts or serious bruises that would signify that Tyson or Nieman had tried to hurt him beyond making him miss his wedding and tying him to this chair. All his limbs are intact, bones not broken. Really, with the way his shirt is untied, it's almost as if they were trying to have him more comfortable than he would be under the usual kidnapping circumstances.

"No, Kate's not here," she answers suddenly, tapping her heel against the floor to get his attention back, to break his new train of thought. She snickers softly at the sigh of relief he lets out, as if telling him not to be relieved yet, that things can still happen. He can't help it, though. He knows that, things can happen, go wrong and that Tyson and Nieman can get to his loved ones anyway. The chances of them being hurt are slimmer, though, if they're out there on the streets instead of tied to a chair is a small, dark room like he is.

"You know, that doesn't mean she's safe," she echoes his thoughts. "You weren't tied to this chair when we got you. We can still go after her, and Alexis and your mother," she continues, eyes locked on his as she counts of her fingers. As she mentions Kate, her right index pushes back her left ring finger—he silently wonders if it was planned that way, since Kate is his fiance and was almost his wife. At the mention of Alexis, her middle finger joins her ring finger, and then her left index is added as she speaks of his mother. He's willing to bet that it was her intent with the hand motion, to make him realize exactly what he does.

Three people. Three women. It's Tyson's M.O. Three women that he can strangle and leave peacefully, even if they're not blonde. He's deterred from his M.O. before, when he killed Tessa, and the Lanie and Esposito look alikes. This isn't about murder anymore, not for him. This isn't even about getting revenge for the way his mom left him. This is about making him hurt, punishing him and those he loves for ruining everything, for seeing and deducing everything, even though he's always one step ahead of them. But he could kill them, Kate and Alexis and his mother. And it would at least somewhat be following his M.O. And people would notice, but no one would catch him. And they all know it.

"Cat's got your tongue, Mr. Castle?" she asks suddenly, standing even closer to him now. "You were rather talkative earlier, for a hostage and all. What's wrong now? Did I say something to upset you?" she asks, leaning forward, giving him a clear view of her breasts before leveling their gazes and locking her eyes on his. He doesn't really have an answer for her. It's an idiotic question in the first place. So he doesn't answer with a statement, but with a question.

"Why haven't you hurt me?" He goes back to his first big question, to the one thing that's bothering him more than anything else. "Why kidnap me and tie me to a chair just to talk to me and have me sit here?" he elaborates, explains aloud, because it really makes no sense. People kidnap people for a reason. People kidnap people for ransom, for revenge, but not just to tie them to a chair where they sit and just wait for something to happen. She's barely even taunting him, telling him things that would upset him. Even when she implied that Kate was here, being held hostage, too, she had quickly told him she wasn't. It's...strange.

"Because that's not part of the plan. We're not trying to hurt you _physically_, Mr. Castle. We want to punish you by hurting you where it really matters," she explains cryptically, standing up straight again. She takes another step back, heading back in the direction of the wall, crossing her arms over her chest again. Her eyes are shimmering with mischief now, with the so-called plan they have. This is taunting, letting him know that she _knows _what's going to happen, how they're going to punish him.

"What is the plan?" he asks, a churning, sinking feeling in his gut tells him he won't like the answer. The gleam in her eyes, the taunting, teasing, horrifying look that he hopes he'll never, ever have to see again. It swirls in the grey orbs, so bright and obvious and _scary _that it stands out even in the darkness that surrounds them. She's satisfied. She wanted him to ask that. She wants to tell him about the plan. For all he knows, this could all be part of said plan. This could all be part of the frightening, twisted plan that only a pair of psychopaths could ever come up with.

"I thought you might want to know," she speaks, confirming his thoughts. The sound of her voice sends an unpleasant shiver the down his spine, the click of her heels sounding softly once again as she walks around his chair to stand behind him, furthering his discomfort. "You see, Mr. Castle. It starts with your mother. And then we'll kill your daughter. And when Kate comes to get you, because you know she will, we'll kill her, too. And then we'll let you go."

He's not quite sure what being shot in the heart feels like, but he guesses this is pretty close.

* * *

**This was the first chapter in Castle's POV. There will be a few others, so let me know what you think about his insights. Thank you for reading. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

She walks off the elevator, into the bullpen with her head held high, Ryan and Espo behind her, Lanie standing to her right. It's early in the morning, only a handful of uniforms and a couple detectives occupying the homicide department of the precinct. Of course, those who are at the precinct this early, just waiting for someone to show off and take over their shift, all turn to them the minute they walk in, eyes wide and curious, a silent question being asked, one to which they won't get an answer. Honestly, she knows she probably won't even talk to anyone here...she's really not in the mood to explain _anything _that's going on right now. She's not sure she ever will be able to explain _this _without breaking down.

She hadn't wanted to come to the precinct in the first place, the bullpen holding way too many memories in almost every single part of it. It varies from standing next to him at the murder board and building theory, throwing a bet just so his presence isn't removed from her life. Then there's the bathrooms, where he caught her reading his book and yet he never brought it up again. There's the hallways which they've walked through time and time again, for the sake of cases or for...more personal issues, such as hiding places. There's her desk, memories of him and others mixing, from soft promises of _always, _to Kyra telling her the he was all hers. There's the break room, where he makes her coffee, where his arms slip around her sometimes, or vice versa, and they just offer comfort to each other.

She forces herself not to look around, not to let the eyes on her make her turn. She's done a lot of things at the precinct: quit her job on a whim, let her rage get the best of her, celebrated her return alongside her fiance, made fun of the boys...and even cried. But she's never broken down the way she knows she will if she lets the memories invade her mind, lets herself think about the possibility of never making more. Just trying to keep such thoughts at bay, internally telling herself to not remember, to not think about everything that could go wrong from here on out, is making her tear up.

Lanie must sense it, or see it, because she reaches out and runs her hands down her arm, squeezing gently at the elbow. She lets her eyes travel to her best friend, letting her see the tears welling in her eyes. Lanie just nods, as if silently telling her that she can do this, that she can walk through this precinct with her head held high and not break down. She nods back, repeating the silent message as she turns back towards Gates' door and keeps walking. The eyes on her don't look away, but she manages to keep looking forward and keep the tears at bay until she opens the door and walks into Gates' office.

Captain Gates had been expecting them. They wouldn't have shown up so early without knowing she'd be here. So, Ryan had called her, asked her to meet her, him, Esposito and Lanie, even though the latter isn't a detective, at the precinct as soon as possible. He had been scared of waking her, and yet she somehow knew they wouldn't. No matter how...strained...her relationship with Gates can be, no matter how often Gates questions her and her decisions, she knows they're similar. Gates is a dedicated cop, was a dedicated detective and is now a dedicated Captain. Gates shows up early, just like she always has. And though, yes, she's doubted Gates and Gates has doubted her, she knows her Captain cares for her detectives, for her team. She just hopes that team includes Castle.

She certainly wouldn't bet on Gates allowing them to go through with this, much less on her helping them the way they need. Their Captain is one person who doesn't keep her...apprehension and dislike towards him a secret. But she holds onto hope, hope that she won't call in the FBI, hope that she'll let them try and find him without making it public, hope that she might even help. She might question Gates, but Gates is a smart woman who has seen a lot of cases, worked in more departments than she has, has more information at her disposal. And, if she's honest with herself, she knows that Gates is the most objective person that she trusts to keep this a secret.

She's sitting at her desk, looking over a file, from what's most likely a newly closed or newly opened case. She doesn't really care about that case though, as much as she hates herself for being so selfish right now, for not sparing the image of what is evidently a crime scene a second glance. She feels bad for not being herself right now, for not caring for justice the way she usually does, for not caring for justice beyond the justice she wants to get for her fiance. She's not herself right now, but she's also not a detective right now. For the first time in fifteen years, she's the family of the victim—when it doesn't pertain to a case, like his other near death experiences have ever since they're partnership began.

More tears prick at her eyes at that thought, at the realization that she is so _not _a detective right now. She's worked countless cases over the years—stabbings that hit too close to home, children losing their mothers, children whose lives were taken too soon, Alexis' kidnapping and even her own mother's case—but she's never been like this. Yes, she's been emotional. Yes, she's been biased. Yes, she's been irrational. But she's never been this desperate, this _needy. _She hates being needy—always has and always will, even now.

Lanie's hand reaches for hers, squeezes gently before pulling away just as quickly. She looks up to see her friend looking at her, big brown eyes still filled with worry, gleaming with pain. She's reminded, by the look in her friend's eyes, that they're all hurting, that Lanie and Ryan and Espo are all worried about him, too, even if not to the same extent as she is. She still looks away from Lanie though, at this point still unable to handle other people's worry, other people's pain.

Selfishly, she wants to ignore it, even though she knows it's wrong. But pain is hard to deal with, especially when you're trying to deal with your own. She seriously doubts that Lanie or the boys will hold it against her that she wishes he were here, squeezing her hand, reassuring her with words, instead of them. She seriously doubts they'll be upset that she's currently trying to deal with her own emotions to help them deal with theirs. Honestly, as much as she hates to admit it, at this point, they're probably used to it.

"Kate?" A voice speaks just as she squeezes her eyes shut to rid them of the tears. The word sounds foreign, even though it's her name. The tone, the voice is different, makes her eyes snap open and travel down to where Gates is sitting. The file is now closed on the desk, the picture of the crime scene put away, hidden from her gaze. Gates' glasses are also sitting on the desk, no longer perched low on the bridge of her nose. Dark eyes, similar to Lanie's, look up at her. It's to a much lesser extent, her relationship with Gates much less friendly and personal than her's with the others, but she can see the slight glimmer of worry in them. She swallows hard at that, blinks back the final, lingering tears, because she knows that if Gates is worried, her pain must be evident across her face.

She just nods, once again finding herself in a position where she doesn't trust herself to speak. It's different, knowing that _Gates _is worried about her, despite the differences they've had over the years. There had been the quick quip about her beating Gates by a few weeks, gaining the title of youngest woman to ever make detective. There had been the comments on whether or not she worked well without Castle—now, she'll be the first to admit that she does her best work with him.

But they have had their moments. There had been the day when she had been stuck on a bomb for hours, Gates' soft congratulations before she and Castle left the scene. And there had been the moment right after they had booked Bracken, her explanation of everything that had happened, admittance of her Captain's faith in her, congratulations on solving what was by far one of the hardest cases they've ever seen at the twelfth. The latest on the short list of moments when they actually bonded is the moment before her vacation—she fights the tears that prick at her eyes at the thought of the _vacation_ she took, how she had planned to spend it—when Gates had smiled and told her she was happy for her. She has a feeling the sentiment doesn't apply anymore.

"I'm, uh...sorry...about what happened." Her voice is soft, sounding almost hesitant, just as foreign to her ears as the sound of her given name of Gates' tongue. She blinks once, twice, down at her Captain, feeling the tears threaten to flood her eyes as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth, lets her eyes lock on the deep, chocolate brown ones looking up at her in a way she has yet to see. She's seen Gates worried before, like right after she was saved from Bracken's drug ring, but never like this.

In their line of work, worry is normal. Pain, danger and near-death experience are pretty much weekly occurrences in the homicide department. Being shot point blank in the chest is one thing, one thing that arises true worry among the cops that surround her day by day. A car accident, a bomb, even a shooting isn't uncommon. They're used to it, each and every one of them. And even though, as always, worry does spark within them, it's never enough for them to be overly vocal about. It's a reassuring smile, an expression of relief, never worry lingering in their eyes or unshed tears.

This is different, though. This is like when she was shot in the chest, this is like when Ryan and Esposito were trapped in the burning building, like when Castle was being falsely convicted of murder. This is more personal, hits closer to home. It's not a takedown gone wrong or a violent suspect. It's facing the loss of someone, possible or impending. It's knowing that things are wrong, but not because of some random case, and not at a very opportune time.

When she was shot in the chest, Montgomery had just died and the whole team was already vulnerable, _she _was already vulnerable. When Ryan and Espo were in the burning factory, their lives were on the verge of being taken. Ryan had almost left a child behind that day, and seeing Jenny in labor just outside the building had made it hit closer to home than ever before. When Castle was framed for murder, and even when she was framed for murder, it was the knowledge that their whole lives could be ruined by something they didn't do, the knowledge of what they were leaving behind that had the people around them worried and upset. They were different situations, different circumstances. And, like this time, they hit too close to home, the risk too high, the emotions running wild as everyone worries, because this shouldn't happen. This should never happen.

They weren't even on duty, which she knows makes it even more surreal. She remembers telling him in the freezer, facing their death like they have countless times, that, as a cop, she had always imagined taking a bullet. Honestly, her nightmares of his death are often marked with that same cause of death. She never imagined losing him to a car accident until two days ago. And even though she now knows that, if she has lost him, it's not the crash that took his life, she never imagined losing him like this, either—not on their wedding day, not after a car crash, not because he was kidnapped. Nobody imagined this happening. But, she's learned by now that it's when they least suspect it that things go terribly, terribly wrong.

"That's actually why we're here, sir." She suddenly hears Esposito's voice from behind her. The room is otherwise silent, so she hears the soft thud as he takes a step towards the desk. She blinks back tears—_god, _she had promised herself she wouldn't cry—and turns to face her fellow detective, sees the almost calm determination in his eyes. Out of all of them, Esposito is the one who can keep his emotions in check best, compartmentalize best. She's not surprised that he's the level headed one right now, taking the spot she usually takes. She lets him take the lead on this, lets her eyes drift closed as she attempts to compose herself. She has a feeling that she might have to explain, too, because this was all her idea.

"I assumed," says Gates.

She opens her eyes to find the chocolate brown ones still on her, traveling the length of her body, rendering her self conscious of her attire. She's never showed up at the precinct dressed like this, or in anything remotely similar to this. She's wearing some of the clothes Alexis brought her yesterday, a pair of loose yoga pants that she usually only wears to bed because they're really comfortable—after a morning of nausea and tears and forcing herself to eat only to throw up some more, she really wasn't aiming for anything more than comfortable when she threw them on this morning. And her shirt is even worse, a loose black t-shirt with the Star Wars logo printed across the front, tied in the back with an elastic she borrowed from Jenny. It's Castle's shirt.

She's positive Alexis has seen her in this specific one before, watched her wander around the loft with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, wearing nothing but leggings and this shirt. Lanie's seen her in his shirts before, too, the first time being when she stopped by her new place after the explosion, over four years ago now, to find her unpacking some of the stuff sent over by the insurance company, wearing his red shirt. More recently, there's been the times when she invited her best friend over to help plan the wedding—or, more accurately, get all giddy and excited for it—and she was sitting around in his t-shirt. Even the boys have seen her dressed like this a few times. But Gates never has, and she never planned on having her boss see her like this, especially not at the precinct. Yet, here she is.

"Sorry," she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest in attempt to hide the large, grey logo. "I didn't...I haven't been...home...yet," she adds, letting her gaze fall to the dark wooden surface of Gates' desk, avoiding her questioning, worrisome and curious eyes. She finds herself fighting the urge to cry, _again_, at the mention of home, though, and swallows hard before forcing herself to speak again. "I don't know how much you know about the...incident, but Lanie ran dentals and confirmed that the...body they found...isn't Castle." Her voice shakes as she keeps looking down at the desk, Lanie's hand finding her elbow as she lets the words tumble out, the reality of them finally beginning to sink in.

The sigh of relief she hears in response to her statement is a surprise, the long, slow exhale that she knows didn't come from Lanie or Ryan or Espo because they already knew. Her eyes snap wide open, head raising so she can truly see Gates, and what she sees surprises her as much as the sigh had. Her brown eyes are slightly less wide now, some of the worry fading from them as she continues to look up at them, continues to stare up at _her. _She can see the relief flooding them, though, slowly filling the orbs before fading to be somewhat replaced by worry again, as if the reality of the words just fell upon Gates. It makes her heart skip a beat as realization falls upon her; Gates doesn't hate Castle.

Hope overwhelms her as she soon realizes what _that _means. It means that Gates might be willing to help them, to allow them to break the rules to find him. Gates might be willing to give them advice, to understand their situation and the ways their hands are tied right now. Gates might accept the reasoning behind everything they want to do, everything they're going to do, no matter what. It courses through her veins, spreads an almost foreign feeling warmth through her body as it hits her. Gates might let them do this, secretly investigate what should be a federal case, outside the precinct, off record—the same way her investigation of Bracken had been—for now. At this point, she thinks that their Captain might even help.

"And we want to investigate this, the car crash and his disappearance," she continues, straightening her back. Her voice is steady now, sure. She can hear it, the change in her, feel the change in Lanie and the boys as her eyes remain locked on Gates'. "But, because of the circumstances, we want to investigate off record," she explains, letting her arms fall from crossed over her chest in an almost scared and defensive way to rest at her sides, confidence coming off her, though minimal, for the first time in days. "We think your insight could be a valuable asset to our investigation, if you are willing to help, to let us bend the rules so we can bring him home."

Her voice shakes slightly as she finishes, but the corner of her lips turns upwards slightly as she feels pride rush through her. She can feel it radiating off of the people that surround her, can see it sparkle slightly in Gates' eyes, as if she realizes how hard this is on her, for her to say. Investigating his disappearance, her fiance's disappearance, isn't something she ever imagined doing, despite their line of work. Coming to Gates to ask her to break the rules though, goes far beyond anything she ever thought she'd do. Trying to convince Gates to help her save a man she's almost only ever expressed dislike towards is new, foreign...and scary.

The response she gets, though, shocks her more than anything has in the past few days, the sure tone of Gates' voice as she speaks, the determination that lingers in her words reminding her that Castle is part of the team. And even through she's no Montgomery, Gates is loyal to her team.

"Detective, what can I do to help?"

* * *

She throws her head back against the wall—her skull coming in contact with drywall with a soft thud—as a groan builds in her chest and escapes her lips. Her hair, pulled up in a ponytail, tickles the back of her neck, the top of her back, as it's ends slip beneath the loose neckline of his shirt. Her eyes drift closed, squeeze shut for a brief, moment before she opens them again, gazes up at the white of the ceiling. She takes a deep breath in, replacing the air expelled in her groan with fresh air, letting it once again escape her lungs through her slightly parted lips.

She hates this, not really having _anything _besides speculation to go on. There's _nothing. _No trail, no evidence, no leads. There's no CSU team at the scene, no forensic evidence, no victim to run an autopsy on. This is so different—so, _so _different—from almost every case she's ever worked. It's not a _murder_—well, technically it is, since she assumes the body that _was _in the car wasn't that of a person who voluntarily got run into a ditch. This is a kidnapping, and a kidnapping that's extremely personal, at that. And really, that's the only thing that makes this relatively similar to anything she's ever done.

She always tries not to compare one case to another too much, not beyond what her training tells her, at least. Of course, she knows that all teams have a dominant member and that all killers have either a justification for what they did—at least, in their minds—or a stressor that caused them to go on rampage. She knows that serial killers come in all different kinds, and that said different kinds had different characteristics that often repeat themselves from one to another. She also knows that different people react differently in various situations, that similar cases can come out with extremely different results. She also knows that comparing killers often gives them sick satisfaction, and that's the last thing she ever wants to do. So she doesn't, treats every case as the unique situation it is.

This case in particular is even harder to compare to anything she's ever done, the personal story behind it, the serial killer she believes is responsible. Not to mention the fact that she's only worked about two kidnapping cases before, and she had an entire team of not only detectives, but people trained to deal with kidnappings, helping her and backing her up. This time, she has her team, yes, but none of them are trained in solving kidnappings, none of them are completely objective, none of them have any idea where to start. There's no where to start.

There's only one case she can compare this to—of course, besides the three other ones they've pretty much solved, that have shared one thing: Jerry Tyson—and that's her mother's case. It's secretive, behind even the rest of New York's law enforcement officers' backs. The outcome depends on how well they can keep this a secret, on how little everyone else knows. It's also close to her heart, too close, so close that it physically pains her to look into it. It makes her heart ache, looking down at a lined paper with no leads, no evidence and no way of getting justice for the one she loves. This time, though, as the laptop warms her thighs, the glass of water Gates practically forced her to sip sitting on the bedside table next to her, it's even harder.

Justice isn't the only thing at risk now. Rick's life is.

She can hear the boys trying to figure something out, anything out. Their words are hushed, quiet yet stocked full of determination. She can see Gates scribble down on her paper from the corner of her eye, the cascades of dark curls that part at her neck as she leans over the desk in the room. Lanie's eyes scan the screen along with hers, her side pressed to hers gently as she does useless searches online and comes up empty handed every time. Lanie might not have any crime solving training or experience, but she knows that her best friend is necessary for this investigation. Without Lanie, she's not sure she'd be able to keep going.

She never imagined it being this hard. After her mom died, she promised herself she would never, ever allow herself to need someone enough to practically shatter at the loss of them, much less simply the _possibility _of losing them. She obviously hasn't kept that promise, considering her current situation. But even after they got together, despite near death experiences they've both had to face since she showed up at his door—soaking wet and begging for forgiveness—it's never been this hard. Perhaps, since he's always been right by her side, even when facing his death, it's never been this real.

It makes it even more real—the possibility of losing him, the possibility that she already has—going back and looking at cases they've solved but never got justice for. It's like a stab to the heart, staring at the laptop screen, illuminated by an image of one of Tyson's previous victims—a young, blonde woman from before they ever crossed his path—that once again reminds her that he could do that to her fiance, to the father of her child, and have no mercy. He's a serial killer, so killing is what he does. Kidnapping has never been part of his plan, not like this. He's never gone out of his way to get his victim away from his day to day life. In fact, he's never targeted a man, besides the one other time he targeted Castle, and the one he used as an Esposito lookalike. Truly, looking over his previous cases is doing to opposite of helping. It's just making it harder to find him, harder to prove that he has anything to do with this in the first place.

Gates had been the first to point out that this case is not typical of Jerry Tyson. _Detective, I know that Tyson has targeted Castle, but we have no evidence that links him to this, _she had said, her voice soft and almost sympathetic as she spoke, so unlike herself, so unlike the hard, almost emotionless Captain they see everyday. _He's never kidnapped before, _she had reminded her, eyebrows raising slightly. She had nodded in response, because of course she _knew _that, she knows that.

She's studied Tyson's cases more than anyone else, alongside her fiance, without him. She remembers going home and trying to figure out if he was alive, wanting to get closure for Castle. She remembers looking into Neiman after she left New York, trying to get closure for Ryan and Esposito. She remembers, just as clearly, going over everything she remembered, looking over his previous cases online, trying to figure out why he's targeted everyone in their group but her. She knows how he works, she knows what he's done.

She will never really know, however, what he's truly capable of. Now that he has a grudge, now that he sees things more personal when it comes to her team, she doesn't know how far he'll go, how much he'll change, just to punish them. He's made it obvious, however, that he's willing to change his M.O. in order to get revenge on those that found him, on Castle and Ryan, and Esposito and Lanie...and her. It started with Tessa Horton, and then there was Pam Hodges and Daniel Santos, all strangled, but not blonde, not even all women, and not posed peacefully. Tyson has already gone to great lengths to get to them, to punish them, and she knows that he won't stop until he succeeds.

That's exactly what she told Gates. _Tyson wants to punish us, Castle more than anyone, because he figured out who he was, _she had said, her voice shaking as she defended her theory. _He's already veered from his M.O. to do so, so why wouldn't he do it again, _she had asked, the defensive tone of her voice less than convincing as nerves made it shake, as emotion rendered her compromised. _Sir, I know that this doesn't go with what we know about 3XK, but I _know _it's him. I can feel it._

She had sounded crazy, even to her own ears, as she had spoken, silently remembering the time Castle had teased her about her gut's magical properties. But she had also remembered Agent McCord telling her to follow her instincts, back when she was working with the FBI. And she had been right, then. She knows she's right now, too. She knows that Tyson and Neiman have her fiance and are doing who-knows-what to him. Besides, like she told Gates, it's not like she has nothing connecting Tyson to the crime, no evidence that would suggest it's him over anyone else.

_I know we have no concrete evidence, but I do have concrete reasons to suspect him, _she had continued defending herself, tears burning behind her eyes as she prepared to explain. _The change in venue, to the Hamptons, was very last minute and wasn't planned by me or Castle. The only way someone would have known, was is they were invited to the wedding...or watching our...home, _she had explained, letting her eyes drift closed for a second, composing herself. _Tyson...has watched us before. He revealed it to Castle, when he tried to frame him for murder...that he watched us...in our own home, _she had continued, fear rising in her throat because, really, he's _still _watching now, watching Alexis and Martha as they bite their nails and anxiously await news.

That had been enough for Gates, brought them here, sitting around Gates guest room, looking over everything they had. As she glances around the room again, seeing no change in anyone but Lanie—she's now looking at her with worried eyes, instead of at the screen—she still can't believe that they're here. Gates not only offered her help, agreed to keep everything secret, but she had allowed them to run their investigation from her guest room, from her _home. _

They had been sitting in Ryan's car—the four of them, Gates in her own vehicle speaking to each other through open windows—when she realized she had no idea where to go. She had been quick to inform Gates that she wasn't ready to go home, to her apartment or his, and that she didn't want to drag Alexis and Martha more into this than they already were. Ryan had claimed that he also didn't want to bring his family into it. Lanie and Espo had been quick to explain that they didn't have the tools or space to accommodate the investigation—not to mention that none of them were sure if Tyson had watched them in their apartments, too. She had almost been defeated, about to go to her old apartment—the desperation to find him overwhelming the fear of unwelcome memories—when Gates had told her to drive to her place, that her children, both teens, would be out, and her husband would be at work.

Arriving at Gates' house had been strange, to say the least. Even though her boss was invited to the wedding, and someone she trusted and admired, she had never imagined being in her home. She could tell that it had been just as awkward for the boys, to watch Gates unlock her front door and have her invite them into her home. Lanie had been the least shaken, most likely because her job involved Gates a lot less then everyone else's did. Then again, it is Lanie, and she's probably the most comfortable in new situations of them all at any given moment.

She'll never, ever forget the next few minutes, though. The look on Espo's face—the way horror, sympathy, joy and love had all flashed through his eyes in mere seconds after she told him she's pregnant—will forever be engrained in her memory. The same goes for the shock that coated Gates' features at her announcement. _Uh, guys, there's something else you all should know. Well, Ryan and Lanie already know, but Javi, Sir, it's really important. And please, don't try to bench me or stop this investigation because of it. I won't give up, no matter what you say, _she had said, rambling, eyes downcast and following the intricate designs of Gates' kitchen's tiled floor. _Detective, you're rambling. Just tell us, _she had said, her voice soft and serious.

She remembers the deep breath that had expanded her chest before she spoke, soft and sure yet scared and embarrassed. _I'm pregnant. _She shivers as she recalls the feeling of Ryan and Lanie's worried gazes on her as she said it, a glass of water being shoved into her hand by the latter. Espo had gasped, a soft, barely audible _really _escaping his lips as he exhaled. Gates hadn't said a word for what felt like forever, until she was standing next to her, eyes locked on hers and said simply: _congratulations. _Espo had repeated the word, the sentiment there despite the look of fear across his face. Lanie had teased that, based on how scared he had looked, people would think he was the one who knocked her up. They all knew he wasn't.

He had pulled her aside after that, though, while Gates had picked up her computer, pens and papers and Ryan told Lanie about how he found out about the baby. Slipping into the protective big brother role, he had asked her if she was okay, if she really felt up for this. She couldn't lie to him, not when he looked so scared for her, and had admitted that she really wasn't sure. She had told him, though, that she was sure she couldn't not try to find him, that there was no way she would sit back and relax when she knew he was out there, somewhere, and that she could save him. Esposito had smiled at her, told her he knew there was no way he could convince her to sit on the sidelines.

She blinks out of her thoughts as the warmth of the laptop of suddenly absent from her thighs. She turns quickly to see Lanie setting the device on the bed, next to her feet, closing the lid of it with the heel of her hand. Part of her wants to reach for it again, stare at the images the way she stares at her murder board when she's desperate for a lead. She's never been more desperate than she is now. The other part of her, though—the dominant part of her, apparently—allows her friend to close the lid completely, watches he images fade to black. She swallows back the sigh of relief, the effect the images had on her fading along with them.

"This isn't doing us any good," said Lanie, tapping the lid of the computer with the tips of her fingers, gaining everyone else's attention. Espo and Ryan turn to face them, the bed's comforter twisting beneath their bodies and they nod in agreement. Ryan holds up a lined paper, marked with scribbles and words that bring them nowhere, as Espo tilts his head towards the pile of crumpled ones to his partner's left. Gates also turns, the office chair she's sitting in bumping into the desk as she does so.

"Yeah, I got nothing," she says, holding up her own page of scribbles. "No action from anyone named Jerry Tyson or Kelly Nieman in New York City nor the surrounding areas since his presumed death or her disappearance." She sighs as she finishes, crumpling up the piece of paper and tossing it onto the desk. "Why don't we take a break, have something to eat or drink and then figure out our next move?" she suggests, already pushing herself up from her chair as the boys nod. She wants to argue, to say they have another move, but she knows they don't...and she knows she should try to eat, for the sake of her child. With a soft sigh, she accepts Ryan's hand and allows him to help her to her feet.

It's just as she arrives at the top of the stairs that the sound of her ringing phone startles her. Lanie, reaches for her arm. The boys and Gates all turn back to look at her, silently asking if she was expecting a call. She wasn't. She pulls her phone out of her pocket anyway, not bothering to check the number before answering, sure and steadily speaking her surname into the receiver. It's a deep, man's voice that comes through the phone when the person on the other end replies.

"Detective Beckett? My names is Eric Yates, and I'm a correctional officer at the Metropolitan Correctional Center," he says, sounding slightly nervous as he speaks to her. She can't help the shiver that runs down her spine at the mention of the prison, knowing exactly who's there, awaiting his trial.

"Yes?" she replies, her own voice shaking. "What can I do for you, officer Yates?" Even as she asks, she's not sure she wants to know.

"I don't usually do this, detective, but I have an inmate who insisted he needed to speak to you. He said that it's a matter of life and death?" It sounds more like a question than a sure statement, but her hand shakes anyway. She can now clearly hear the nerves in Yates' voice, knows this isn't some random inmate that she sent to that prison.

"Does this inmate have a name?" she asks, tears burning at her eyes, her stomach clenching because she already _knows._

"Uh, yes. It's Mr. William Bracken, detective."

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**And, there you have it. Loved it? Hated it? Let me know.**


	9. Chapter 9

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

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She nods at the guard as she walks into the room, dark and almost empty. Once again, she finds herself missing the click of her heels, the authority and strength it gives her to hear it as she walks. Right now, as one guard closes the door behind her, another standing in front of the other door, she also wishes she was wearing her work clothes, or anything besides her missing fiance's t-shirt and a pair of leggings. She feels so…under-dressed, standing in a prison visitation room with two fellow law enforcement officers and one man she sent here. These are the kind of people that only ever get to see her in a suit, or jeans, or in a turtleneck, but never in what she often wears to bed.

She hates this, feeling so vulnerable. Her attire alone is evidence of how weak she is right now, the slight shaking of her hands that has reappeared since yesterday. She hates being in this room, the two things that render her weakest haunting her at once: Castle and her mom's murder. She hates knowing that he can take advantage of her right now, knows that it would take one word, one simple question or statement or even _look_, and she'd break at the seams.

It's a little relief, though, seeing him sitting there, on the other side of the table the way the men he hired were, the way the man he framed was. His smug grin is gone, replaced by a tight lipped line. He looks defeated, as if he knows he no longer has the power to taunt her, that she has the upper hand now. His eyes, however, still hold a glimmer of pride. She can still feel it as his eyes follow her, that he's _proud _of what he's done, of the people he's torn apart—and, _oh God_, she hopes he doesn't have anything to do with this, that he called her here to taunt her with knowledge he has but won't share.

She shudders under his gaze, feels the goosebumps rise on her flesh. She fights the urge to defensively cross her arms over her chest, the same way she did when he confronted her in that motel room while she and...Castle...were on the run. As she lets her eyes land on his again, pulling the heavy, metal chair away from the table so she can sit down, she finds herself glad that he won't be able to touch her this time. She never wants to feel his hands on her, even innocently trailing down her cheek, again. She didn't want to the first time.

Her hands intertwine as she takes her seat, her arms landing on the table in front of her. His position almost mirrors hers, his own hands landing on the table, fingers linked, cuffs holding his wrists mere inches apart. He stares right at her, icy blue eyes taunting her with sick pride. She locks her eyes on his, hoping to give of the impression of being strong, hoping he doesn't see the way she's tearing at the seams, right now. His eyes are telling her the last thing she wanted to hear: _I know something you want to know. _

Lanie and the boys all warned her against coming, told her that it was _so _not the time to go see Bracken. Lanie had told her that the last thing she should do is face a man who has some power over her when she's already so...emotional. The boys had agreed, telling her that she has to let that go, let Bracken go, even though she is one of the main witnesses at his trial, her future testimony the most important. So, really, she can't just let it go and try to forget about Bracken. She also knew, though, that going to visit him in prison wouldn't do anyone any good...unless it was important.

That was her argument for them, telling them that prison guards don't do favors for inmates without having some reason. Especially under these circumstances, where pretty much everyone in the United States now knows that she has personal past with Bracken, that he killed her mother. She knew, could feel it as she listened to officer Yates speak to her through the phone, that he wouldn't have called her had he not thought it was important. In fact, he told her his reason. _He said it's a matter of life and death, detective. I figured you'd at least want to know._

Of course, the boys and Lanie know her well enough to know not to argue with her, know that when she sets her mind to something, there's very little stopping her. Really, they all know the only person who has ever been able to stop her was Castle, and he wasn't there and she was emotional and it was apparently a matter of life and death. They tried to stop her, Lanie saying her name in that soft sympathetic way that she's always had truly mixed emotions about, the boys exchanging worried glances before looking back at her, silently begging her not to go, or at least to not go alone.

It was Gates, shockingly, that had told them it was okay, speaking up from the bottom of the stairs, telling them all that it was detective Beckett they were speaking of, that they know, better than anyone, that she knows what she's doing. Her captain's eyes had locked on hers, her nod slow but sure, silent permission to go, silent admittance of Gates' faith in her. She had smiled and taken it for what it was worth, watched as everyone turned to face Gates and then her and nod as well, also all silently telling her they would be okay with it if she went.

So here she is, sitting across from Bracken, a large, heavy, metal table separating her from the one man that ruined her life, realizing like a punch to the stomach that he might not be the only one, now. Her team is waiting outside, Lanie and Gates sitting in the waiting room just outside, to make sure she's okay when she gets out of this meeting, Ryan and Espo waiting in the car because they _insisted _on coming despite her protests. Now, though, as she feels her stomach begin the churn and she hopes with everything in her that she won't have to run out of here to throw up, she realizes that it might have been for the better.

"Everything okay, Kate?" he asks suddenly, her name on his tongue sounding bitter and disgusting and she _hates _it. She always had, hearing him say her name in a way that says everything she never wants to hear, never wants to know. He says it like he's taunting her with a single syllable, four letters that she's heard so many times and has never, ever hated as much as she does when they escape his mouth. And, worst of all, he _knows _the horrible effects it has on her, _knows _how much she hates it and he does it anyway, for that very reason.

"When have you ever cared?" she counters, surprised by the suddenly steady tone of her voice even as she's forced to punctuate her sentence with deep breaths through her nose. She will not let this pregnancy ruin this, won't give him more ammo to use against her, to weaken her. She refuses to let that happen, refuses to let this man get the best of her when, in this position, it looks like she's already won. Oh, how she wishes this felt like victory.

There was a sense of satisfaction at seeing the contrast of his pale skin against the dark orange of his prison jumpsuit, when she first walked in. Unlike when she would come to see Lockwood in this very position, this reminds her that she caught the guy and that there was s no more questions, no more _I will be back _or _who paid you?_ This time, with Bracken, it was for real. She caught the guy and he was now sitting across from her with nowhere to go and no strings to pull and no chance of ever, ever getting back to where he was.

Now, though, as she stares into his taunting blue eyes, her name on his lips still echoing in her head and on the walls of the small visitation room, she's not so sure. He asked to see her for a reason, so he can talk to her and pull some string that she apparently missed, taunt her with knowledge they don't share, that he has and she needs. And she _hates _this, not knowing what's going on and how she can get out of this mess, this meeting with her mother's killer, this undeniable sense of nausea that is overwhelming her senses once again, the fact that her fiance is missing. She hates it all, this position she's been put in against her best wishes.

"Oh, Kate, I've always cared," he answers, the tone of his voice making her wonder if he would be reaching out to touch her right now, if he wasn't handcuffed to a table. "I never liked doing what I did, knowing I had hurt people...like you." She scoffs at that, unable to hold it back. "Sometimes, you just don't have a choice, though, do you?"

It's a stupid question really, because there's always a choice and over the years she's come to realize that people often make the wrong one. It's a conscious choice to kill someone—unless the crime was committed under very, very special circumstances that definitely don't apply to Bracken. It's a conscious choice to tease and taunt someone and destroy their life. It's a conscious choice to lie, and to run from your lies as much as it's a conscious choice to tell the truth and face what scares you most.

They all make mistakes, have all made mistakes, whether they know now, or knew at the time, it's a mistake. Everyone knows that. Not everyone realizes, though, the error of their ways. She's not sure if Bracken is one of them, or if he's just pretending to be.

"You never cared about me, at least not about my feelings. I guess you did care about my existence, though, since you tried to kill me a few times too many to pretend you didn't," she spits at him, tightening her grip on her own hand as she stares him down, fights to keep her emotions in check. "Or did you hate having to do that, too? Was that also _necessary_ for your precious little career in politics? Is that why you put a bullet in my chest, because you had no choice?"

The guard standing by the door on his side of the table turns to her at that, as if he didn't already know about Bracken's crimes and the gravity of them, about the murders and the attempted murders and the conspiracy and the fraud. Everyone knows, though. Almost everyone in the United States, probably a bunch of people in Canada, too, know what he's done. She shoots him a glare, makes him quickly look straight ahead again, intimidated by her even when she's wearing leggings and her fiance's baggy t-shirt. Usually, she'd smile in satisfaction. This time, she's too upset about _everything _to care.

She glances back at the man sitting across from her, sees the way he's taken aback by her bluntness, by the fact that she's not letting him get the best of her. He shouldn't be so surprised, though, really. Every single time she's confronted him, or he's confronted her, it's been like this. It's always been a game of equal taunting, his crimes and the emotional effect they have on her against her stubbornness and incriminating knowledge against him. It's always been his taunt against her threat, his blue eyes against her green ones, his methods of eliminating threats against her undying determination. He's never seemed to view her as weak, as someone who will back down at his words, but he seems to have underestimated her this time.

"So, what do you want? Why did you ask to see me?" she asks, leaning forward on the table so he knows she's not backing down, that she doesn't care about his precious ego or about her rampant emotions right now. He called her here for a reason, and she's not going to sit here and let him waste her time when she has much better, more important things to do with it. She's wasted enough time on him, on finding his identity, putting him behind bars. Now that he's where she's always wanted him and she has the upper hand, there's no way she's going to waste any more. Especially not while her fiance is in danger.

"Oh, Kate, you don't want to finish catching up? Don't you want to know how _I've _been doing these past couple weeks? Or, wait, how'd your wedding go?" The way he says the last question tells her that he knows there was no wedding, that he's once again taunting her, trying to get to her. It's no secret that Castle—her partner, her friend, her lover, her _always_—is the best way to get to her. It's the very reason she wore her engagement ring around her neck instead of on her finger at work, because she didn't want people to find this weak spot. She can't hide it from Bracken, though. He's monitored her life too much to not know that she's engaged, that she was supposed to be married by now.

She tries not to let on that's working, really, really tries. But the moment she feels the cold metal of her engagement ring against the center of her right palm, she knows she failed. Hiding the ring, the fact that it's the only one that adorns her left ring finger, is a defence mechanism that she knows didn't work. As if hiding the ring will hide the fact that she's not married, that she should be but she isn't and instead she's here and he's out there, who knows where. _Oh God, _she has to change the subject before he truly gets the best of her and she walks out of here crying.

"I don't care how you're doing." Her voice holds venom, her anger apparent as she narrows her eyes, her pain seeping into it, though, almost ruining the effect. "And my relationship status is none of your business," she adds, squeezing the fingers of her left hand with those of her right, pressing the cold engagement ring into her palm as a reminder to stay calm, to stay composed, to not let him get to her. "What do you want?" She articulates every word, lets every syllable roll off her tongue like a sentence in itself, leaving no room for veering off topic.

His eyes glimmer with mischief as he leans back in his seat, linking his fingers in a way the reminds her of the way Dr. Burke used to when she was rambling about...everything...and Castle. It's different, though. Dr. Burke would be satisfied with her progress, smiling at her discreetly and silently congratulating her on all that she'd accomplished. Bracken, on the other hand, is satisfied with himself and the way he manages to get to her despite her tough, usually impenetrable resolve. He knows what he's doing and is undeniably pleased by it, doesn't even try to deny it. She prefers Dr. Burke.

"I have...information...that might be useful in regards to your most recent...investigation. You know, the one with the John Doe who died in someone else's car after it was run off the road," he says, eyes locking on hers as the unspoken parts of said investigation are processed, unspoken words being spoken through icey blue eyes. She swallows hard to contain a shudder, because not only does he know there was no wedding, but he apparently knows why.

It's impossible to not read between the lines, to see the story he's telling play in the back of her mind. She once again sees the flaming car, hears the loud, booming voice say there's a body, hears Lanie's soft tone as she told her that said body wasn't her fiance. He's talking about the accident, the kidnapping, and she doesn't even want to question how he knows, she just wants to know what he knows so she can get out of here and move on. She wants him to tell her so she can go out there and find her fiance, because at this point, any lead, even one from Bracken, is worth looking into.

She turns to the guard, still standing near the door on his side of the room and clears her throat to get his attention. He looks torn when she asks him if he could leave them alone, eyes darting between Bracken and herself. She softly reminds him that she is an NYPD homicide detective and that she knows how to behave and fend for herself. He nods and, although hesitantly, leaves her alone with Bracken, tells her that she has ten minutes, max.

She takes what she can get and turns to the man sitting across from her, locks her gaze on his, sets her palms flat on the metal table that separates them. He's leaning forward again, resting his elbows on the table, giving her a full and satisfying view of the metal rings and chain that hold his wrists together. She remembers the day she first slapped cuffs on him, feels pride well within her, ridding her mind and heart of the fear and intimidation. The cuffs are the reminder that she's already won the battle against him, that he is sitting in here because of her and he has no way of proving he deserves to be out there, of getting out. It gives her the courage she needs to finally speak again.

"This had better not be a trick. I have better things to be doing, _important_ things, and if this is some kind of joke, I will make you pay," she tells him, promising herself that it's the truth, even though she's not exactly sure what she can do to make him pay more than he already will. She needs him to know, though, that she will not have him waste her time, that she will never, ever forget it if he is making her sit in here with him while Castle is out there being hurt or, _God forbid_, killed.

"Oh, Kate, when have I ever lied to you? Remember when I told you I owed you my life? I kept that promise, right?" he asks, as if that is even remotely close to a good example of his so-called honesty. As much as in that particular situation, he kept his promise, there is nothing in the world that he could ever do to prove to her that he is an honest man. You don't just gain trust back after lying to an entire country for _years_, after promising good and delivering some of the worst.

"Yes, but don't expect a thank you card or my trust," she answers. "Now, tell me what you know about Castle." She's adamant, refusing to take anything but this knowledge he claims to have at this point. She hopes he can see that, hopes he knows that if he's going to beat around the bush, she'll leave without knowing what he claims to. She doesn't deal with stalling well, never has and never will. She sees it as an admission of guilt, or of lying. Today, she has no time for lies.

"Oh, Kate, you know me. I don't just _give _information. I want something in return," he says, eyes still shining with mischief as he articulates every syllable.

"What do you want, and we'll see if we have a deal," she says, not even contemplating making a deal with the devil without knowing what this deal entails. She might be emotional and desperate, but she's not stupid enough to trust Bracken so easily.

"It's nothing horrible. You know, my trial is in a few months. I want you to make sure that I end up in protective custody," he says. She just keeps staring at him, nor denying, nor confirming her willingness to hold up that end of their deal. "Come on, Kate. You know what people like them would do to someone like me. I just don't want to get killed."

It makes sense, it really does. And, despite the fact that her hands are suddenly fidgeting at the concept of making a deal with the man that ruined her life, she also knows it wouldn't do much damage to keep him alive, but still in prison. He can't do much from the confines of a jail cell, whether he's alone, protected or neither. And right now, she decides as her heart begins to beat a little faster and her stomach begins to churn with nausea at the idea of _helping _him, with anything, the information he claims to have is truly all she has.

"Fine, but only if this information helps me find Castle. If it's useless, the deal's off." The words sound forced, uttered through clenched teeth. Her hands clench together, knuckles turning white as she awaits his reply, waits to know if he'll tell her what he claims to know. She watches as he contemplates her counteroffer, sees his cheeks widen as he grins at her, locks her eyes on his as they glimmer with everything she hates seeing in them, and he nods.

"Okay, fine, Kate, have it your way," he says, once again leaning back to let his gaze sweep over her. She watches as his eyes travel across her now-crossed arms, a stance she takes up when she's feeling defensive. She sees the humor dance in them as they travel to the huge, loose sleeves of Castle's shirt, the black material a stark contrast against her pale skin. They travel up her neck, avoid her eyes as they scan the air surrounding her, examine the high ponytail her hair is pulled into before they eventually do land on her eyes, icy blue meeting angry green. "I got a visit—"

"Stop," she cuts him off right there. "I don't want to hear a _story. _If I wanted that, I'd go to the library, or _home._ What do you know?" She repeats her earlier question, the information he has her only interest, where he got it being irrelevant.

"Fine, but you won't believe me without an explanation." it sounds almost sing-song, like Castle sounds when he's teasing her or rambling on with stupid, supernatural theories. It's the tone Castle uses when he's joking. Bracken had better not be joking. "I think they're holding your fiance in Chicago," he says, sounding much more serious as he raises his brows at her, awaiting her demand for an explanation.

She waits a second before asking for the story he was going to tell in the first place, rolling her eyes at the satisfied grin that makes it's way across his face. It suddenly feels oddly like she's no longer questioning her mother's killer on information he has on her fiance's kidnapping. It feels more like she's talking to a random witness, about a random crime. She cherishes that moment, that feeling, silently wondering how long it might be before she feels it again. She knows it will be gone the moment he opens his mouth to explain.

He doesn't stall much, waits a few seconds before repeating the original intro to his explanation. He tells her that, a few weeks ago, he got a visit from Kelly Nieman. Apparently, Nieman wanted to strike up a deal. Bracken wanted her dead, in order to minimize the risk of his life of crime being revealed. Nieman and her serial killer partner—as Bracken calls Tyson—wanted to punish Castle for discovering their identity. Nieman wanted them to work together, apparently claiming that it would be much easier to achieve both their goals if they partnered up.

He goes on to tell her that he refused, since he wasn't stupid enough to have a partner who knew of his crimes. He claims Nieman was upset when she left, said it was stupid for her to even think that he might ever want her help. After she left, he had one of his men follow her, just to make sure she didn't do anything stupid with the knowledge she already apparently had on what he had done. His man followed her to Chicago, was smart enough to stop following her was she turned onto a rural, empty road heading to the outskirts of town. His man followed about a half hour later and eventually found her car, but it was empty. She couldn't have gone far, he explains, not without her car.

It doesn't all add up, she decides, as he finishes telling her the story, but the ten minutes are up and the guard is once again joining them in the room. Bracken once again leans forward, smirks at her in a self satisfied way. She flashes a smile at him before pushing herself into a standing position, nodding at the guard and thanking him for the the moments of privacy. He nods back, face remaining free of any emotion as his gaze travels from her to Bracken once again.

His story is still playing in her mind as she turns to leave. The general concept of it makes sense, Bracken and Tyson teaming up to get their two biggest enemies out of the way. She just doesn't understand why Nieman would go to Bracken, why Tyson would risk revealing himself like that. She decides, taking a step towards the door she came in through, that she'll run the story by her team and see what they think. It's all she has now, the word of a man who has told more lies than anyone she knows. She hates that she's being forced to put her trust in him almost as much as she hates the fact that he was out there for years without paying for his crimes, almost as much as she hates not knowing what's happening to Castle.

She forces herself to take a long, slow breath, takes another slow step towards the door. Her hands begin to shake, the reality of what she just did, of what he just said, of the fact that her fiance could be in _Chicago_, so far away from her, hits her like ton of bricks. She feels her heart clench at the thought of him being in a different city, in a different _state, _so far away and alone, or with some psychopath, being hurt or tortured or isolated. She blinks back the tears those thoughts bring to her eyes, takes a deep breath through her nose, pauses on her journey to the door.

"Oh, and Kate?" she suddenly hears from behind her, turns to face the man, now standing in front of the guard, right under the threshold of the door opposite her. He smirks at her again. "Congratulations." His eyes pointedly travel down to her stomach, and her hand instantly flies there, as if instinct is telling her to protect her child from the gaze of the dangerous man before her. "And extend them to Castle, one you find him." He adds before the guard jerks him in the other direction and he's forced to leave the room.

She feels the tears fall, her stomach jerk as his words echo in her mind and she runs from the room as quickly as possible, needing to get those final, parting words out of her mind, out of the air surrounding her as quickly as possible. Lanie is there to meet her, arms open wide as she accepts her into her arms, wraps them around her and helping her stand upright as sobs wrack her body, her arms draped protectively across her abdomen as she gasps into her friend's shoulder that her biggest enemy knows about her baby.

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**Love it? Hate it? Let me know. Also, for those of you who were really curoius about Bracken's involvement in all of this, and who might be disappointed by this chapter, I promise this isn't the end of him, he will be mentioned and will appear again. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey, guys. I'm so, so sorry for the super long delay for this chapter. My laptop broke on about a week ago, and I've been sick for the past few days, so I wasn't able to get much writing done. But here's chapter 10 (finally!) and I hope to get chapter 11 posted soon enough. Anyway, thank you for sticking with me and being patient. **

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"He stalks his victims before he kills them," her voice cuts through the otherwise almost silent hotel room, overpowering the rustling of paper, the typing on keyboards, the hushed whispers of her team as they all turn to her. Espo's eyes are wide, Lanie's and Ryan's disapproving and Gates' understanding, because she's supposed to be asleep, after a long morning, a restless afternoon and sleepless flight. She promised she'd sleep. She hasn't slept.

"What?" asks Espo, his attention no longer on the laptop resting on his thighs, but on her as he evidently tries to work out to meaning of her completely out of the blue statement. He leans back against the bed's headboard, Ryan doing the same next to him as they both watch her, wait for her to elaborate. Lanie and Gates turn to look at her, too, from where they're sitting at the small table on the wall of the hotel room.

"Tyson. He stalks his victims before he kills them. Or at least, he used to. That's what Castle said when we were investigating...Jane Herzfeld's—" Ryan and Espo's eyes widen, as if they're silently surprised that she remembers the victim's name, even though she doubts Ryan ever forgot "—murder. That means he was watching us," she explains, still laying on her side on the bed they practically forced her to lay down on. "But...if he was watching the loft, Castle might not be his only intended victim."

When this all started, all she could think about was him, the way the flames had licked the grassy bank of the ditch, the white of his car engulfed by red-hot fire. And then there were images of him being tortured, Tyson wrapping a rope around his neck until he was on the verge of unconsciousness, pulling it away and leaving Castle sitting there, gasping for breath with a burning throat, his face returning to it's normal color from the shades of purple and blue that lack of oxygen had caused. All she had been able to think about was him, at the precinct, at Gates' house, overnight, curled up on the Ryans' couch.

Now though, as Lanie and Gates sift through newspaper articles and Ryan and Espo read up on abandoned buildings surrounding the city on the laptop they had brought him them, her thoughts are elsewhere. Because, no matter where he is, it could be too late and she knows that and that possibility hurts more than anything ever has. But now, she's here and he might be here, too, sure, but she left his family behind, their family behind, and he might be here but Alexis and Martha are there, and he stalks his victims and he stalked Castle, which means he also stalked the three of them, and they could all be intended victims. They could all be targets.

Her mind flashes, as she pulls her knees up and tight against her chest, traps her hand between her stomach and thighs, to the day, three and a half years ago now, when he asked her if she would look out for Alexis if anything were to happen to him. They had still been just friends back then—if, honestly, people could have ever considered them 'just friends'—him paranoid over a curse, her annoyed like she almost always was around him. But she agreed. She had said okay, agreed to look after his daughter should anything ever happen to him.

Now, though, something happened to him, something much worse and more definite than a Mayan mummy's curse, and she's here and Alexis is there and yes, she's trying to bring him back, for all of them. Now, Alexis is in New York, and she's in Chicago and something could happen to her, Tyson could target the young redhead who has so much going for her, such a bright future ahead of her. Something could happen to Alexis, and she fears that, if something does, whether they hanage to save him or not, their relationship could be in serious trouble.

Of course, she's not stupid. She thought of all this before leaving, had made sure that if they were willing to listen, Martha and Alexis would be as safe as possible. She had warned both redheads—over the phone, sitting with her knees pulled up under her, sitting in Ryan's living room as he packed—to not let anyone up to the loft, except family...if they were to stop by. She told Alexis to call Eduardo and ask him to make sure that no one made it up to their place, or to call them if he saw someone suspicious.

She had also made sure that they knew to always stick together outside of the loft, just in case. She reminded them that Tyson was a dangerous man—always without going into detail about what she had seen from him, about the secrets that remain in between their team and their team alone—and that she was simply trying to keep them safe, on the off chance that he should go after them. Alexis, always so wise, careful and understanding, obedient and quiet and never one to break the rules, had agreed. Martha, despite being a little more flamboyant and stubborn, had soon agreed as well, as soon as she was reminded of what was at risk there, what's still at risk. Alexis had easily understood, though, which she demonstrated when she quickly spoke, before they hung up, telling her that she had to take her own advice, stay safe.

Of course, it hadn't really been an option for her to _not _take her own advice, considering the people she was bringing with her to Chicago were some of the most protective of her, were already extremely protective of her baby—as demonstrated by their determination to keep her well fed, hydrated and rested. She had assured Alexis, though, that she would stay safe all the while working her absolute hardest to bring Castle back, that if she had her way, they'd all get back to the city safely.

"You think Alexis and Martha will be targeted?" Espo is the first to speak, to break through her thoughts, his fingers typing mindlessly on the laptop's keyboard, probably unintelligible combinations of letters and symbols. "Does Tyson even have any reason to go after them?"

"He wants to hurt Castle," she states, rolling onto her back, her feet falling against the somewhat comfortable mattress, arms falling to rest on her forehead, one covering her eyes. She takes in a long, slow breath through her lips, releases it the same way. "Castle...he's very...protective of those he loves. The best way to hurt him is to hurt someone he loves while he's unable to help them."

Her mind flashes back to Alexis' kidnapping, hearing their suspect's cries of pain and knowing that Castle was inflicting that pain on him, all to save his little girl. _I didn't think you had that side to you, _she had said—she remembers being so unsure of how she felt about it, scared that he did have such a side to him, or simply just confused or...accepting, knowing he was only doing it to save Alexis. _When it comes to the people I love, I do, _had been his reply, sure and unfaltering. He does, though, have that side to him. The best way to get to him would be to go after Alexis while he can't do anything to save her. She just hopes that's not the plan...or that, if it is, that they don't succeed.

"Then he could be coming after you, Kate," says Ryan, echoing Alexis' words, fear marking his words as they vibrate in the small hotel room, travel from his mouth to echo in the silence that surrounds them, fear falling over the group. The only thing continuing to make noise is her steady breathing—she's trying desperately to stay calm, composed—and Espo's mindless typing, which is driving her insane yet keeping her grounded at the same time, something to focus on besides the thick, tension filled air that she breathes in, that surrounds them all.

It's moments like this that remind her of the fact that they truly are like a family—Captain Gates being the latest addition, Castle missing from his usual spot next to her. It's the moments when they're faced by danger, by death and they share a mutual grief, a mutual fear for each other, when silence captivates them because there's nothing else, nothing but thoughts running wild and worry that runs deep.

"Kate, you have to be careful," says Lanie eventually, her voice slicing through the thick tension like a knife, a metal blade that brings relief rather than pain, for just a short moment, just long enough for the air to escape her lips, leave her chest feeling empty for a moment, the weight on it shrinking just enough for her to breath normally, for her to take one breath.

"She's right. Castle told us himself, that you and Alexis are the most important people in his life," adds Espo, making her breath once again catch in her chest, the reminder of the love they share unwelcomed and unsettling. _You and Alexis are the most important people in his life, _it plays in her mind again and again, a reminder that he is _the _most important person in hers.

_I'm proposing because I can't imagine me life without you, _he had said, voice soft but steady, sure and full of love, of promise. That day—in the same park where she told him about the wall, where she decided she only wanted him, where her hand had slipped under her shirt, the third swing soon to be filled, the second possibly going to remain empty—those words had been all the reassurance she had needed to say yes, promise him forever. Today, they make the tears start to fall, her lungs burn until she pulls in a gasp of air, only for them to burn when she chokes on her exhale because she can't imagine her life without him, but now she has to, because she might be forced to live it without him.

She rolls back onto her side, shakes and sobs wracking her body as she pulls her knees back up to her chest, presses her hands against her face, the heels of her palms pressed against her eye sockets as if that will stop the tears. It doesn't. It just hurts, physical pain joining the emotional one until she pulls her hands away, closes her eyes and covers her mouth and nose instead, muffling her wet coughs, her sniffles as she struggles to regain her composure.

Silence falls upon them again, Espo's nervous tapping against the keyboard speeding up until it's too fast for her to focus on, his fingers picking up speed as her tears soak through the material of Castle's hoodie, the one she put on before getting on the plane, pulled over her legs when she curled up in a ball in her seat, pressed her head against the headrest and watched the clouds go by as she had tried not to think.

The scent of it—the scent of him—comforts her, the same way it does when he's away on a book tour, or it did when she was in DC. She knows it's why Alexis brought it for her, knows that the younger woman has seen her walk around the loft in it on that one week when he traveled the East Coast doing book signings, remembers the shy smile that has spread across her lips, the red-hot blush that had tainted her cheeks at Alexis' raised eyebrows. She loves this sweater, because it reminds her of _him, _reminds her that he's always here for her, and today, reminds her that there's still a chance.

Her tears slow, the sleeves of his sweater pulled up over her hands as she continues to breathe in his scent, lets the familiarity of it overwhelm her until she has nothing else to focus on but the way it fills her nose, the steadying rise and fall of her chest as she forces herself to _just breathe. _

No one says another word about Alexis or her being potential targets, and she forces herself to just not think and just breathe until, eventually, the sound of rustling paper returns along with a more steady, meaningful tap of fingers against the keyboard. She buries her face in the pillow below her head, crosses her hands over her stomach, presses them there with her thighs, letting the soft sound of investigating eventually lull her to sleep because, really, breaking down like that is exhausting.

She crushes the newspaper clipping with her fist, rolls it into a ball as the sharp edges of it threaten to cut through her skin. Anger boils up within her as she chucks the piece of thin, crumpled paper against the hotel room's beige wall. It bounces back, landing on the same desk where Lanie and Gates had been sitting earlier with a sound so soft she barely hears it from where she's sitting at the head of the double bed. Her groan of pure frustration drowns it out, anyway.

"We have nothing." It's a statement, a fact. Not like those afternoons at the precinct when Ryan comes out with normal financials and they have no suspects and she just wants to go home, or to figure out what their next move could be. It's not like when Gates comes out of her office to confirm that they're still waiting for something to come up. It's not like when Castle shows up just a little later than her, glances at the murder board to find it practically empty and asks her if they have nothing.

No, there's no question about it this time. They truly have nothing, no phones or financials to go through—suspect or victim, they already tried both—no aliases or background checks to run. They've already tried it all—well, except the aliases, because they have _none _to run checks on or financials or anything, because they don't know any of Tyson or Nieman's aliases. News articles on murders in the Chicago area brought up nothing that could even resemble something Tyson would do, and the unsolved ones and Jane or John Doe's they'd come across were all less than intriguing when it came to their own case.

So, yeah, she's frustrated. Yeah, they have nothing to go on, no leads that will help her find her fiance and no promising resources to help them find one. They have no jurisdiction. They have no witnesses to question, possible suspects to rule out, prints to run or DNA or even a murder victim. And she has very little experience in solving kidnappings—little being the one case that Sorenson dragged her into, and the one where their murder investigation led them to finding out about a kidnapping—none of which is really helpful here, because the circumstances this time are so, so different.

When she really thinks about it, she realizes that the only thing they really have going for them right now is their past experience in working cases without the help of the local PD, without the resources of a precinct, the help of other detectives and uniformed officers. They know how to establish connections between people using nothing more than an internet search, and how to track someone from the privacy of their home. They've done it before, and really, that's the only thing keeping her somewhat hopeful.

Well, it _kept _her somewhat hopeful. Now, though, hope is dwindling down, what had been keeping her heart light-ish, is fading to nothing as she stares down at a pile of useless newspaper clippings, crumpled and sorted and sitting on the bedspread it half-organized bunches. Because they did sort them, they did sift through them and decide which ones _could _be somewhat useful, others that wasted precious minutes they would never, ever get back, others that are in the middle, that have potential, but not very much of it.

She groans as she reaches for another clipping, grasping two in her fist instead of just the one as she crushes them into a ball, the thin paper giving easily under the tight squeezing of her fingers. She feels tears stinging behind her eyes as she throws the second ball at the wall opposite herself, hearing the soft rustling as it hits the wall, and then the desk right next to the first, smaller bundle of paper.

She collapses forward as she watches it, sees the useless paper sitting across the room from her, on the table, the follow-through of her throw making her right forearm land on the bed before the rest of her can. The edges of the most important articles cut the thin, sensitive skin of the back of her hand as her first hits the mattress a little harder than necessary, making the light papers bounce on the mattress, piles overlaying each other even more.

Tears fall from her eyes, the frustration overwhelming, as she brings her left arm up to mirror her right's position. She intertwines the fingers of her two fists in a way similar to the way he would twine his fingers through hers if he were here and knew she needed it, needed that reassurance, squeezing her own hands hard until her knuckles turn white and her arms, from wrist to shoulder, shake with the effort. Her upper body falls forward as another choked sob escapes her—so many have in the past couple days that, even if she were counting, she would have lost track by now—and her tears wet and darken the white material of the bedspread.

Lanie's familiar hand comes to rest on her back, rubs slow and comforting circles into her tense muscles through the material of his t-shirt—she took off the hoodie when she woke up from her nap and started helping them, but is regretting it now as she longs for the comfort it brings. It's familiar, something for her to focus on instead of the stress of all this, the frustration pumping through her veins because of this investigation. It brings her back to the last time Lanie had to comfort her because of Castle—well, something that had to do with Castle—and because of Tyson.

It's hard to believe it's been nearly two years since that day when she called Lanie over to her apartment, her voice shaking, eyes burning from tears already shed, because she needed a glass of wine and someone to talk to. Her boyfriend had been locked up in a holding cell, the evidence saying that he had committed murder, killed the person the same evidence said he cheated on her with. She had really just needed to talk it out, to vent and know that the person listening wasn't like her, didn't have so many conflicting emotions because they always chose to believe the evidence, but in that moment, the evidence had been pointing her in a direction that would force her to stop believing in the man she loves.

It had been much like this, except she had been sitting on her couch, elbows digging into the sensitive skin just above her knees, face buried in her palms as she cried, doubted herself and her feelings and her relationship and her loyalty and everything she'd ever claimed to believe in before for that one moment. Lanie had been sitting next to her, telling her that it would all turn out alright, that they would figure out what was going on because someone who looked scared in a holding cell was definitely not a killer. _Castle _was definitely not a killer.

This time, though, it's different. Ryan and Espo and Gates are probably all staring, wondering when she turned into this crying, emotional mess. Even as she cries, lets her frustration seep out of her in the form of big, crocodile tears and choked breaths, she wonders that herself, when she lost the power to keep her composure, a skill she worked so hard to obtain, that she loses so quickly when it comes to him, to the one person she loves more than anyone...and the family they now share.

This time, unlike the last, she can't go to him for reassurance, slip her fingers through the metal cage of his holding cell and promise him that she still believes him, that she never stopped, as he returns the gesture, letting his hand rest over hers, his fingers warming hers. This time, she can't stare into his eyes and know that everything will be okay, or promise him that it will be okay, that she'll get him out. It's different this time. She can't make that promise, to him or to herself. She can't get reassurance from him, from his hands, from his eyes, from his words. She can't promise it will all be okay, because that depends as much on Tyson as it does on her, and she _hates _having to put her hope in the hands of a serial killer.

She buries her face in the mattress to muffle the sob that racks her body, to minimize the jerk of her chest that comes with the cough, the sharp intake of breath that she takes in after that. She feels her veins pulsing, her head pounding with frustration, as she squeezes her hands together even tighter, digging the tip of her right index finger into the skin between her left thumb and forefinger until it hurts. Her stomach clenches, her uneven breathing making it worse as she turns her head towards the window at the far end of the room, presses her cheek into the mattress, stares at the view of the Chicago skyline as she tries to calm herself...again.

Lanie's hand presses into the tense muscles of her lower back, travels up her spine before pulling away completely, but still slightly soothing the storm within her. Her tears slowing, she uncrosses her legs, relieving the burning that had begun in her hips, bringing her knees up so she can press her chest against her thighs, laying in a makeshift child's pose. It's uncomfortable, the tenseness in her body not allowing her to do the usually relaxing, simple yoga pose, the muscles in her back and neck aching as she curls herself into a ball over her legs, buries her face in the valley between her knees, forces her hands to release each other, curls her fingers around the hard bones of her kneecaps and takes a deep breath.

She can still feel the others looking at her, watching her as she tries to compose herself, once again. It reminds her of past therapy sessions, Dr. Burke watching her as she cried, curled herself into a ball in the corner of the couch in his office, Dr. Davis—her therapist from after her mom's murder—asking her what she was thinking, feeling as she curled herself into a ball and cried about how her dad was giving up, how her mom would never have justice, how she was alone. She hated it then—more with Dr. Davis than with Dr. Burke, but still—knowing that people could see her pain, see that she was falling apart from the inside, out.

The breath she takes in at that thought—memories of grieving her mother, trying to find herself against in the fog that followed her shooting mixing with the reality of grieving her...always—is shaky, her chest barely willing to accept it, just as unwilling to release it. She presses her face harder against her knees, letting her tears soak the thin material of her leggings, hoping the pressure against her eyes will help the tears stop. Her fingers clench along with every other muscle of her body before she relaxes, her body exhausted. She turns to her friends for the first time since her breakdown, lets them see the defeated look on her face, silently pleading them to help her find _something_.

Lanie and Ryan just stare at her, sympathy in their eyes like she's never seen before—the two of them have seen her through this the most, seen her break down like this, seen her pain more than Esposito and Gates—as Espo and Gates turn back to the computer screen they had been looking over. She watches them intently, silently praying that in the past...fifteen minutes, maybe…something suddenly came up that would help them, even though the evening is fading into night and the chances of something coming up are dwindling. But Esposito clicks one time, probably refreshing the page, and gasps.

"What?" Newfound energy allows her to push herself off her bed, crawl in front of Ryan across the other one to see what Espo just saw, hoping that it's something they can use, something that will help.

Her eyes land on the pale, lifeless face that illuminates the screen on Gates' laptop, her breath escaping her in a single, quick exhale as if someone knocked it out of her, because _that _is definitely a lead.


	11. Chapter 11

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

He winces as he hears the now all too familiar creak of the opening door, the click of Nieman's heels against the floor as she approaches him. It sends a shiver down his spine, the reality of what she'll do falling over him, making him blink to hold back tears, making sweat begin to form on his forehead, because after the last time she walked in to talk to him, he's not sure he can handle what she's going to tell him now, what she's going to taunt him with, what story she's going to tell him.

He's an author, he has a talent with words, written and spoken alike. He spins stories all the time, makes Kate laugh at his supernatural, hyperbolic stories and theories, makes Alexis roll her eyes at his lack of logic, makes Ryan indulge in the stories, makes him begin to believe them, like that time with the zombies. He has a talent with words, a talent that's brought him this far, that's made him who he is, that has allowed him to live the life he wants, that allowed him to form a relationship with Kate, allowed him to fall in love.

He's also come to find that he has a talent for finding discrepancies in stories, the smallest of details that are wrong. At the precinct, as much as his crazy theories often don't help, his writer's eye for detail often does, allows him to be in sync with someone who has been trained in seeing people's mistakes, in spotting problems with alibis, finding parts of a timeline that just don't make sense. It allows him to be in sync with Kate, to help her catch killers, to help her get justice.

He's also come to learn, since the day they met, that Jerry Tyson also has a talent with words. Perhaps not like him, not for spinning stories and letting his imagination run wild. No. Tyson's talent with words is different, his attention to detail is different, no matter how much he insists that they are similar. While he uses his words to entertain, to understand the deepest, darkest parts of the human mind, Tyson uses his to get inside those parts of people's minds, a part of his own mind that he's already well acquainted with, that controls him more than any other part of him ever could.

Tyson uses his words to get into people's minds, to bother them, to make them doubt themselves and all those around them, to make one's mind run wild. Tyson uses his words to taunt, to hurt people, the way he did when he visited him in holding. His words are harsh, but chosen carefully, as if they're important to him, as if he knows that one wrong word and they lose all effect. Because he pays close attention to detail, in the plans he comes up with prior to committing murder, in the elaborate setup he came up with when he framed him for murder.

Paying close attention to detail is the reason Tyson is free. Paying close attention to words is the reason that he manages to get under their skin.

He hisses as sharp pain suddenly blooms in his shin, his thoughts instantly shattering behind his eyelids, fading, traveling to that deep, dark spot of his mind that Tyson manages to use against him, that Nieman manages to use against him, that she's using as she grins down at him. Her arms are crossed over her chest again, but she's wearing a red shirt this time, a red tube top that reminds him of his days with Meredith, makes him shudder because those days aren't exactly fun to remember, and this present moment is something he wishes wasn't happening, and mixing the two together makes his blood run cold.

"You know, _3.X.K. _called," she says, enunciating every syllable of Tyson's nickname in a way he hasn't heard in a while. In fact, he hasn't heard the nickname itself for awhile, not since he was sitting in holding, handcuffed to a bench and forced to listen as the serial killer that affected his life more than anyone, came so close to ruining it, spoke to him, taunted him, told him he prefered being called 3XK, over Jerry Tyson. He assumes, as he looks up at her gleaming grey eyes and feels his pulse quicken just a little, that Nieman knows that, knows his preferences, does as he asks, calls him 3XK because he likes it.

But the simple, four word long sentence is enough to make him swallow hard, make his heart skip a beat as he stares her down, waits for what he knows is coming, because it's a very similar way to how she started their last conversation. _He called. He finished part two of our mission, _she had said, leaning forward, towering over him, fingers curling around his wrists, long nails digging into his sensitive skin. And she proceeded to tell him a story, a story with details and little discrepancies—if any, they were too small for even him to catch onto.

That's one more thing he's come to learn, that Nieman is also good with words, good at telling stories, or retelling stories that she's been told. Either way, she knows when to raise her voice, when to lower it just enough to give off the effect she desires, the effect she needs to get into his head, get into his heart, to make him wonder, question, to make his heart break in his chest, because it's just so realistic, a great story, told in great detail, detail too great for them to not be planned...or not be real.

His heart clenches in his chest again, because the story she last told him is one that he can only hope is as fictional as his Derrick Storm novel. He hopes she has a talent with words similar to his own, a great ability to tell a tale in great detail, leaving the person to whom she's telling it wondering if it is fiction or based on fact, or completely fact. He hopes with everything in him, every beat of his heart, every breath he takes in, that he story is made up. But it's hard, hard to hold onto hope when it goes so perfectly, when the pieces of the puzzle fit together so effortlessly as the glint in her eyes says she knows she's hurting.

_He got to her, _she had said, her breath hitting his face with every word, making goosebumps rise on his skin, his breath catch in his throat and stay there until he was forced to exhale by the burning in his chest. Her eyes had been piercing grey, locked on his, her lips turned upwards in a sinister smirk, every word she spoke tumbling from them with ease, articulated perfectly. _Your mother. He got to her, at her acting school. _He had swallowed thickly, swallowing back his tears, blinking to break the lock of their gaze.

It had seemed so effortless, the way she spoke, voice never cracking, words never faltering, story so realistic, so believable, so perfectly told, so perfectly constructed. Her fingers had dug into his wrists, palms resting on the rope that still encircled them, fingers doing the same, her skin still pale in the dim light of the room. His heart had broken, struggled to beat, as he looked back up at her, blinked repeatedly to keep tears at bay, the smirk on her face growing, telling him she _knew _she was getting to him, and she liked it, it gave her sick satisfaction that he wanted to take away from her.

She had said it like she was summarizing a book she had read a thousand times, easily, clearly, without hesitating or questioning herself. And he had listened, trying to find some evidence that it was a false story, that she was lying, and finding none as she spoke of his mother, sitting in her colorful office at the acting school, going through possible plays for one of her intermediate classes. She told him that his mother recognized Tyson immediately, her jaw dropping, papers falling from her hands, fear etched upon her face as he walked into her office without a word, his icy gaze making her simply sit there, silent.

It had been the next part that had gotten to him. _He walked up behind her chair, holding it against the desk so she couldn't run. She still didn't say a word, must've known what was coming, right, Rick? You must've told her about us, because she knew she was going to die. _He had swallowed thickly at that, digging his fingernails into the wooden armrests of his chair, curling his toes against the cold, hard tile. _And he wrapped that rope around her neck, let her take one, last breath before pulling it tight._

_She struggled, because your mom just doesn't give up, _she had continued, her words so accurate, so on-point that it made him release the breath he had subconsciously been holding, his chest physically aching. _But his victims always struggle, but they never live. He's not that sloppy, you know. And he's strong. He held her in her seat while she struggled until she was blue in the face—literally—and laid limp in her office chair, the life sucked out of her by a single piece of rope._

She had walked around his chair, her breath loud next to his ear as she drifted by it, slowly standing up straight again, leaving him unable to turn and watch her, to predict her next move. She had reached around him, a flash of pale skin from the corner of his eye, fingers landing just below his Adam's apple, trailing around his neck, brushing the hairs at his nape that Kate loves so much. He had shuddered in his chair, rope digging into his wrists as he pulled against them instinctively, trying to get her hand off him, off his neck, trying to get rid of the fingers emulating the rope that she claimed stole his mother's life.

And with that, her fingers slipping away from him as her heels clicked against the floor, she walked away, a chuckle low and throaty sounding in the room, echoing off the walls and in his head along with words already spoken, a dark story already told. And the door had opened, creaked as it did, and she had spoken one final time. _Think about that, Castle, about how your mother died, because you couldn't save her. And about what's next—who's next._ The door had closed with one final click of her heel, and he allowed himself to cry, still praying that she was lying, that they didn't kill his mother, that they wouldn't lay a finger on his little girl.

Now, though, she's back, smirking at him, telling him that she got a phone call from the very man that tried to kill him, threatened to kill Kate, supposedly killed his mother, was supposedly going after his daughter and fiance, called her. And she knows, knows that she's killing him from the inside, making his heart break and his mind run on overdrive despite the fact that he should really have no energy to think. And all he can picture is his mother laying lifeless on her office floor, posed like Tyson's previous victims, his daughter's red hair floating around her head as she turned around to face her future killer.

He swallows thickly, pushes such dark thoughts back, looks up at the woman standing in front of him, the sociopath that stares down at him with gleaming grey eyes, pale skin a sharp contrast against the bright red material of her shirt, red on white like the Canadian flag. He notices now that her dark hair is tied up today, pulled away from her face in what looks to be a glamorous, intricate bun, sitting atop her head as if she's trying to impress him, or maybe Tyson, or someone. Either way, with the red overly-revealing shirt, tight jeans and fancy hairstyle, it looks like she's going out on a date when she's actually just standing here in a grungy room with him, a man she helped kidnap.

"He did?" he manages, keeping his voice as steady as possible, forcing his breathing to stay even as he looks up at her. "What did he want?" He hopes, silently, that it was not to inform her of how he killed Alexis, how he stole her life way to soon with a single piece of rope, how he laid her lifeless on the ground, laid her hands one over the other on her lower abdomen and left her there to be found. He hopes and prays with everything in him, fighting the tears that threaten to spring to his eyes, swallowing back any more words that are threatening to escape despite the dryness in his throat.

She glances down at her nails casually, running the pad of her thumb over the curve of one of them before looking back up at him, the whole thing reminding him of a cliche scene from a movie. How casual she is about all this is disconcerting, how easy this is for her, despite being the submissive partner, makes his stomach clench, because she obviously doesn't feel any remorse, either, reminds him that she is a sociopath, partner of a psychopath and that his life is in the hands on two very dangerous people, two people who wouldn't think twice about killing him.

She reaches out, straightens the collar of his white dress shirt, once again runs her fingers along his neck, up to his ear and his memory is flooded with images of Kate—from images of her tugging on his lobe to punish him for not listening, to her nibbling on it after trailing kisses up his neck, the weight of her resting in his lap and, _God, _he misses her so, so much. She runs her fingers up the side of his face, around the shell of his ear, curls her fingers around the curve of his neck, running her fingertips through the hairs at his nape, making him shudder in disgust, making him close his eyes because her face is too close for comfort, her breath tickling his face.

"He completed phase three," she says, her voice soft and breathy and he chokes on air and the thick scent of her perfume because phase one was kidnapping him, phase two was killing his mother, which makes phase three…_oh God, _he doesn't want to think about phase three.

His mind flashes back to her fingers, white and pale in the dim lighting as she pulled index, then middle finger, then ring finger down with the pointer finger of her other hand. _You see, Mr. Castle. It starts with your mother. And then we'll kill your daughter. And when Kate comes to get you, because you know she will, we'll kill her, too. _And he can't stop the tears that well in his eyes, because his mother was...well, his mother, and he still wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, but Alexis… _Alexis…_

"She was harder to get to, uh, Alexis, right?" He doesn't answer, swallows back a choked sob that threatens to escape and looks up at her, more desperate than ever to find a discrepancy in her story because he will never be able to handle the pain of losing his baby girl, especially not at the hands of two people that targeted her because of _him._ "Smart girl, that one, must take after her father. Didn't wanna go out. Maybe she knew we were after her. What do you think, _Castle, _did your little girl know we were targeting her, too, that she was going to _die_?"

He can't help the fast exhale that escapes him, the tears in his eyes falling to roll down the sides of his nose, one drop of the salty liquid slipping into the corner of his mouth. His fingers dig into the wood beneath them even more, knuckles turning white with effort, his chest physically aching at her words, at the words of the woman who helped turn his life upside down. His stomach churns with nausea at the idea of losing her, of losing them, his mother, his daughter, his Kate. And for the first time since she first walked in and showed herself to him, spoke to him, taunted him, stared him down, he can't look Nieman in the eyes and challenge her in return.

"Either way, if she wouldn't come out, 3XK had to go in. And what better way to do that than to pose as a delivery man, with _flowers _because you're dead, right? In the eyes of the public you are. _Richard Castle run off the road, dies in burning car, _right?" she says, quoting what he has no doubt the tabloids were saying, and he chokes on that, too, on the air that vibrates with every letter, every syllable and their careful enunciation, because he can't even imagine being Kate, how much that hurt her. He can't help but wonder if she's okay...or if she's lost in the rabbit hole again.

_And when Kate comes to get you, because you know she will, we'll kill her, too, _Nieman's previous words echo in his head, the truth in them hitting him hard, shattering his already broken heart because he knows she's right, knows that Kate won't let this go, no matter what. He knows, he watched her fight to get justice for her mom, watched her pain when he almost died before, felt her pain at the idea of losing him before they were ever together—it was in the brush of her fingers against his after Sofia almost shot him, the curling of her fingers against his bicep after his vest caught the bullet Emma shot at him.

He knows her, knows Kate, and he knows she won't give up. _We want the happy ending, we can't give up, _he had told her, and Kate doesn't give up. Katherine Houghton Beckett never, ever gives up, never stops fighting for what she truly believes in, never stops fighting for justice, especially not for those she loves. And, with a heartbroken, stuttering breath, he realizes that that desire, that _need _for justice, for the truth to conquer, is making her play right into their plan, will be the reason they get to her, will be the reason they manage to complete phase four and effectively take the three people he loves most from him.

"It was a lot like your mother, she struggled, but I think she knew she had no shot, because I bet you've told her about us, and that she knew he had killed many women before her, that she would be another name on a long list of victims," she continues her story, breaking his thoughts, making him close his eyes and pull his lower lip between his teeth because he can't handle this, can't handle listening to this, can't handle the way her fingers encircle his wrist, fix his collar, brush at his neck.

"It didn't take long for the rope to _drain the life out of her._" Her word choice has his tears rolling down his cheeks in steady streams as he can't help but picture the life drained from his little girl, her pale skin even whiter from death, the blue of lack of oxygen slowly fading from her face, a purple bruise forming on her neck where Tyson's rope crushed her windpipe, forced her to stop breathing. "And he laid her out peacefully, just like he did before you caught him, just like he did your mom, and her bright orange hair surrounded her face like a halo. Too bad your little angel had to _die so soon_."

He decides, in that moment, that the pain of her words earlier doesn't compare to a shot in the heart. But this, this just might.

* * *

He leans his head back, stretches the tense and aching muscles of his neck, the back of the chair digging into the place where skull meets spinal cord. His eyes burn from tears already shed, dry after what was undoubtedly hours of crying, of grieving his mother, his daughter, Kate, his everything. His fingers are weak, hands still shaking from the effort of clinging to the chair, palms sweaty, his entire being drained as he slumps back in the uncomfortable seat that he's now been sitting in for well over a day.

He can't help but wonder where Kate is, if she ever will find out where he is, how long that'll take, how long he'll have to sit here and wait for her to show up, knowing that they're planning on killing her, knowing that he might never even get to see her again. His arms, despite his exhaustion, flex up, press his wrists against the rope restraints once again, a hiss escaping his throat as the rough of the material comes into contact with the flesh it's already cut, already turned raw and pink and most likely made bleed. And yet the pain doesn't seem to matter anymore. It did at first, when he first woke up and found himself alone, in this empty room, needing to be out there, needing _them._

But now, now all he can think about is all the things he'll miss, of all the things Alexis will never get to do, of all the stories his mother will never get to tell, all the things he'll never get to tell them, all the things he'll never get to do with them. Now, he can't help but think about Kate, and how he wants to warn her, how he'd rather die here, alone in this room, than have her come save him only to die herself. About how he'll never get to kiss her goodbye, try to formulate the words to explain to her how much he really loves her, how much it hurts to have to say goodbye.

He remembers the last time he pressed his lips to hers, back home before she left for the Hamptons, alone, and he went to get her divorce officially filed, so he could marry her. He remembers the way his hands had rested firmly on the small of her waist, held her against him as her own hands had traveled the expanse of his chest, shoulders and neck, fingers running through his hair, gripping at the back of his shirt because sometimes, it's just so hard to let each other go.

He remembers the last time he told her he loved her—_loves _her—her voice soft and gentle and laced with excitement as she returned the sentiment. He remembers hearing the smile in her voice, so accustomed to her, knowing her so well that he could practically see her beautiful face, pearly white teeth in a perfectly straight line as she smiled because she was just so happy. And so was he. And she loved him, and he loved her and they were getting married. They were getting _married. _They _were _getting married.

But now they're not. He never made it to the wedding —he remembers clearly now, having been given hours to think about it, looking up to his rearview mirror, seeing the sketchy black SUV behind him, the feeling of unease that had settled in his gut before everything just goes...blank. She was alone, waiting for him, and he never showed and now he's here and she's there and one of them are going to die—said one of them being him, if he has any say in it. But no matter how that plays out, his chances of ever, _ever _calling her his wife are becoming slimmer with every second he remains tied to this chair.

He's reminded of that by the all too familiar creaking of the door behind him, the click of heels—a sound, once the pleasant announcement of _Kate, _now a horrible, terrifying announcement of _Kelly_—and the momentary light that fills the dark room before the door closes loudly behind her. He feels his gut clench, his fingers doing the same as she comes towards him, heels growing louder, her aura of despair and pain and anger and crazy growing stronger around him, making a shiver run up his spine.

"You hungry, Castle?" she asks, her being still nothing but horrible energy and the shadow cast on the wall to his right. He grimaces, his face still hidden from her, because yes, he is hungry, but she's fed him a few times before and he's come to the discovery that Nieman can't cook...and that she'd be horrible at feeding a child.

"Why? You have more soup?" he counters with a question rather than an answer because he's come to discover that, even though it doesn't really deter her from her path of destruction, it does keep her from being _completely _satisfied. And in his position, that's the most he can ask for. "Because if so, than no thanks," he adds after a few seconds with no snark reply, no movement from behind him.

"It's not that bad," she says. And for the first time since the day they met she actually sounds insecure, _hurt _even, but it disappears in an split second. "I'm a plastic surgeon," she continues, the tone of her voice returning to taunting. "You must remember that, right? I mean, if you need a reminder, I could make sure you walk out of here looking like a completely different person."

He shudders at just the idea of that, of looking in the mirror to see a constant reminder of _this, _his own face evidence of what is quickly becoming the worst days of his life. Because, really, if Alexis and his mother are already...gone—he refuses to use _that _word until he knows for sure whether or not Nieman is telling the truth—that'll be reminder enough of all this, of words spoken and words unspoken, opportunities missed and promises broken. He doesn't need Nieman's...makeover, of sorts, to make it that much worse.

"No? Fine, but don't criticize my food, or I'll stop feeding you," she takes his silence as a response, he assumes, and speaks again, breaking through his thoughts as she suddenly walks around him again. She's wearing a different outfit, no longer dressed in the strapless red top, rather in a deep, forest green, V-neck blouse that reminds him of something Kate would wear when she spends the day in court rather than out on the field. It reminds him, even in the darkness of the room in which he's held captive, of the earthy color of her eyes, and the way they had gleamed with joy and anticipation as they parted for what was seemingly, likely the last time.

He swallows back the unwelcomed memory, forcing himself to look up from the color of Nieman's shirt—the one that floods his mind with memories, of Kate, of the Hamptons, of…everything—to look up at grey eyes one again. They also flood his mind with memories, but they're less painful now that he knows what his future might entail, now that he knows he might never have the chance to make more memories with those he loves. So he stares into her eyes, fights the urge to look away, to cry, to give up.

"So, do you want soup? Or do you want to starve?" she asks, and the answer should be obvious, he should just answering quickly, quietly that he'll take the soup. But he doesn't. He can't say it like that as if he's desperate to live because, truth be told, he no longer is.

When he first woke up here, alone, with no one but a sociopath to keep him company, he would've done anything to get home, back to Kate, back to his family. He had so much to fight for, a mother, a daughter, a fiancée and a future with her. And yet now, the motivation to go home, to fight is less than appealing, has him wondering if truly fighting to go back is even really worth it, because it seems like it isn't, if everyone he loves is now, or will soon be gone.

Still without answering Nieman's question, he shakes his head to rid it of such thoughts, reminds himself that he truly has no idea what is going on in the outside world beyond what Nieman is telling him. And he knows that Kelly Nieman is a liar, a massive manipulator who has worked the NYPD before, who worked him before, and Kate, the best detective in New York, in his _slightly_-biased opinion, too. Nieman could be fooling him, just like she did before. And until he knows for sure, he has to fight. The last thing he wants to do now is give up, only to leave them all behind, lose the happy ending he lost faith in having.

"Soup sounds fine. Thank you," he answers, seeing her lips curve upwards in a small smirk that chills him to the bone because she looks so...scary, so _evil, _in the dim lighting, pearly white teeth almost glowing as she flashes them at him. He can't help but shudder at the sight, wanting to cross his arms over his chest to put distance between them...or to simply just run...but he can't. So he sits still and waits, waits for Nieman to spoon feed him like a child, since his current situation forbids him from feeding himself.

* * *

She leaves, empty soup bowl in hand, and returns with both hands empty, free to do...whatever. He tries not to breathe a sigh of relief when she leaves, or shudder when she returns. Because she's fed him four times now, but she's never once returned right after the bowl was emptied, not to talk to him, not to taunt him, not to just stand there and watch over him, gleaming grey eyes locked on his as he just stares ahead, waits for her to leave, for everything to be over.

But this time, she does. And she walks around his chair and leans back against the wall just like she did that first day, arms crossed over her chest, her deep green shirt, just like the red one, just like the black one, stands out against the faded, floral design, and her pale skin does the same, her body perfectly visible from where he sits about ten feet away.

He swallows thickly, eyes darting to different spots on the wall behind her, gaze landing on curly flourishes and rips in the wallpaper nearest the ceiling. He wants to look at her, wants to show her that she has no effect on him, that he's strong and that she doesn't scare him. But he can't. She knows now, anyway. She's heard his cries through the door, through the thin walls that separate him from the outside world. She's seen him clench his fingers, fight back words, swallow back emotions. There's no point anymore, so he just stares.

He can feel her eyes on him even as he avoids the grey orbs that shine like those of an owl in the darkness of night, creepy, curious. He can feel the way they follow his body, travel from his sock-clad toes that dig into the tile below them, up his body and down the lines of his arms, to his clenched fingers and then up to his face. There's a question in them, silent, yet to be spoken, on the tip of her tongue, but he can't deduce it. He can't figure it out.

He squirms in his seat, uncomfortable under her intense scrutiny. His back aches from having sat here for hours, his wrists once again dig into the coarse rope surrounding them, the chair tilting forwards at the slight shift of his weight. He freezes, stills his movements as he locks his eyes on the tears in the wallpaper, shifts his weight back again and struggles to get comfortable again, even though true comfort is impossible to reach in his current situation.

She laughs at him, soft yet teasing. Not like Kate. No. When Kate laughs at him, it's gentle and amused, light and filled with the love they share even though he's making a complete fool of himself. It's endearing, beautiful, like music to his ears. But Nieman's laugh isn't amused, isn't affectionate in anyway. Not that he wants it to be. And he really doesn't care about what she thinks of him. He's learned better than to try and please everyone, especially sociopaths. But it brings his gaze back to hers, and he fights another shudder as he sees her eyes on him, words on the tip of her tongue.

"You know, _Castle_, I've always wondered about you. I used to amuse myself by watching videos of you and your family, old and new ones. It was all I could do while we were on the run, before we finally came here," she says, articulating every syllable with ease, eyes remaining locked on his. "I learned so much about you: how you like your eggs, your _coffee, _the nickname you have for your daughter, the way you roll your eyes at your mother, what you like most _in bed._"

He swallows back a gag, remembers back when Tyson told him that he had watched he and Kate make love, the way it had made his gut clench and his heart break, more for her than for himself. This time, though, he feels his stomach turn upside down because Nieman has made it obvious that she was paying attention to _him, _and what Kate does to him, and, _God_, he wants to get those recordings out of their hands so he can destroy them, make sure no one ever watches them again.

"But there was one question I was never able to find an answer to," she finishes, breaking him out of his thoughts about the many, _many_ ways he could get rid of those tapes. He blinks, focuses his gaze on her once again. She tilts her head back, rests her crown of her head against the wall behind her, her eyes landing on the ceiling above them, before she looks back down at him. She pulls her lower lips between her teeth, glances towards the door quickly.

"There was?" he manages, urging her on because the sooner he gets this cryptic, seemingly senseless conversation over with, the sooner she'll leave. And he'd much rather be stuck in here alone than be stuck in her with her.

She nods, looks back at him with a smirk gracing her lips. "3XK told me he's asked you it before, but that he never really got an answer." He wracks his mind for every question Tyson's ever asked him, tries to remember which one's he did and didn't answer. "Any ideas?" He thinks for another second, replays their conversation in holding, when he threatened to shoot Kate, after he knocked out Ryan. And then it dawns on him.

_How close to death do you want to get? _The conversation about Tyson's murderous impulses, his story about Tyson's mother and how he was angry at her for being the reason he went into foster care, but how he loved her anyway. And how he believed, at the time, that _that_ was the reason behind his M.O. But then Tyson had turned the tables on him, asked him where his fascination with murder had come from, if it stemmed from his own repressed impulses, asked him in a steady, taunting tone: _How close to death do you want to get?_ And he never answered, because Tyson left quickly after that, avoiding the arriving cops and the wrath of Kate Beckett.

"So?" He shakes his head no, even though they both know that he has an idea. And based on the gleam in her eyes, he's right. "Fine. Then I'll just ask you myself." He nods as she pushes herself up from the wall again, locks her eyes on his and grins. He fights the urge to swallow back his fear, watches her as she leans forward and runs her hand down his arm.

"You write about it. You spend every day solving it. So, Castle, where does your fascination with death, with _murder_ come from?" The words are spoken, softly, and yet they render the air around him thick and all he can think is that he's heard this question way too many times, and yet he has yet to give anyone but Kate and Alexis a true answer.

He remembers the first time Kate asked, sitting in the precinct. He also remembers the lie he had come up with, barely a year and a half into their partnership and he had spun a tale, a story just like he did everyday. And she had bought it, hadn't seen through the lie, and then he laughed because she was a _detective _and he fooled her. But it wasn't the truth. There was no boy that washed up the beach, and definitely not one with whom he had been playing hide and seek just the day before.

She hadn't asked again until after they got together, after they got engaged. A bruise on his chest, dark and purple with a bag of ice resting on it, she had curled her fingers around his bare bicep, worry filling her eyes as she stared at the bruise, and asked again. And he had told her the truth, the story behind the books and why he wrote murder mystery novels over anything else. He had told her everything, where the fascination was founded. She had smiled at his answer, pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and thanked him for being honest, for being serious.

But that answer, it's private. And it's not a story of tragedy, not a story of loss like Kate's, or a story of pure immaturity like he tells reporters on the red carpet. It's not because he likes putting crazy twists in his stories, or because he's really childish and lives out his fantasies of chasing bad guys through the characters in his books. And it's not that he has anything to be embarrassed about, nothing to hide, no reason to lie. It's just that that answer is private, has yet to be shared with anyone he doesn't love with all his heart and every other ounce of his being. And, needless to say, he doesn't love Nieman in any way, shape or form.

"Why do you care? It's none of your business anyway." There's less venom in his voice than he expected, less defensiveness. It comes out softer than he wanted, and he sees her smile because she knows, knows she'll be able to get it out of him because really, it's no big deal and it shouldn't be some closely kept secret.

"That's why I want to know. It's none of my business," she practically echoes his words from over two years ago, most likely unknowingly, but he shudders anyway. "Besides, you really have no choice but to tell me, because with one phone call, I can get you or Kate _killed _within the hour." He swallows at that, the realization that she has more than enough leverage over him to make him do almost absolutely anything. She smirks at his reaction. All he manages is a slow nod. "So, you gonna tell me?

"Let me see her one more time and take me instead of Kate afterwards, and you got a deal," he manages to say before he can even really think about it. He cringes at his own words, though, hoping with everything in him that she wouldn't take his bargaining as a challenge and pull out her cellphone to make one very important, potentially a life threatening one.

She regards him carefully, furrowing her brows and walking in a circle around his chair, running her fingers across his shoulders, her breathing echoing against the walls as he waits to find out whether or not she will make the call. He hopes with everything in him that she won't, that he and Kate will both live at least another hour, that even if she doesn't accept the deal, she won't have Tyson kill either of them right now. And then she's standing in front of him again, and she speaks.

"Deal."

He wonders if Tyson knows that Nieman is messing with his plans.

* * *

**And there you have it: chapter 12. Updates should be a little more regular now because I got my laptop back (_yay!_). Also, with this chapter I broke the 50 000 word mark, which was my goal with the ficathon. Of course, the story's not done yet, though, so stay tuned!**

**Also, once again, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed and/or favorited this story. It means so much to me, you guys don't even know.**


	12. Chapter 12

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

He barely manages to swallow back his sigh of relief before it escapes, the breath gathered in the cavern of his mouth before he clamps his lips shut unceremoniously, the clink of teeth against teeth sounding in the small room making it a little too obvious. He loosens his jaw and releases a soft breath, his relief seeping into it for only him to hear, to feel, even though he has no doubts that she knows, knows that every muscle of his being just loosened because she accepted.

A yet, a new, lesser form of worry wells within him, fogs his mind and has his fingers curling against the armrest ever so slightly. Because she wants a story, a good story, an answer that will satisfy her morbid curiosity, her personal interest in violence that can come with death. But he doesn't have one. He has no thriller story, no tale of personal tragedy, of the gruesome murder of someone important to him. It's just...not there. That's not the reason for all this, for the books, for him following Kate and the team, for him saying to much and ending up here.

"Are you sure you want to know?" he asks her, hoping she'll say no so he won't have to tell her the truth, risking everything with the boring facts that would really never make a good story, would never be written in a book or spoken of in a movie because it's so _lame._ But her eyebrows raise, her smirk falling ever so slightly and, for a minute, he wonders if asking her that was as big of a mistake as lying to her, bargaining with her or telling her the truth could be.

She puts a little more distance between them, crosses her arms over her chest in the same way that Kate used to when he would ask her a question that made her uncomfortable, that was pushing the boundaries a little too much. The shimmer of taunting, of _evil_, that had been in her eyes for pretty much the past two days fades and she leans back, barely enough for it to be noticeable, but just enough for him to recognize as her putting even the slightest amount of distance between them.

"Why are you stalling, Castle? Of course I'm sure. I've been sure since the day 3XK told me about you," she answers, her voice strong, sure, defensive just like her stance. But then that fades, and the sass she's been showing off for the past couple days returns, her brows raising, the corner of her lips quirking upwards, her left hip popped out, the toes of her right foot lifted off the ground as she stands on her left one and the heel of her stiletto.

"What if it's not what you expected? What if you don't like what I have to say? Will you hurt me?" he asks instead of answering her question, his voice quivering with uncertainty because he's really not sure he wants the answer. He doesn't want to hear her speech about calling Tyson again, about being able to have him or Kate killed within the hour with one simple, short phone call.

She tilts her head slightly, the gleam once again fading from her eyes for a blink second as if a hint of compassion, of decency suddenly wells within her, comes into existence at his words. Her eyes travel the length of him once again, regarding him, analyzing him as if she can read his thoughts, understand body language even though she really doesn't strike him as someone who would understand the basics of human behavior.

Her gaze travels from him to the door, down to the pocket of her skinny jeans where her phone, which is most likely a burner, rests. He can't help but swallow thickly, again, as he watches her fingers drift down her side and across her hipbone exaggeratedly, curling her fingers towards the pocket, running her finger along the plastic top of it. She looks down at the contrast of her skin against the dark fabric of her jeans, the black plastic of her phone, before looking back up at him. Her head is still angled downwards, though, so her long lashes cast shadows over the silver of her irises.

"What do you think will happen if you don't tell me?" she counters, slipping her fingers between the phone and the denim that surrounds it for emphasis, making her point all the more obvious. He doesn't tell her, she makes _the _phone call. He tells her and she's not impressed, she may or may not make the call. He tells her and she is impressed...well, he's not sure what she'll do then. He doubts it will matter anyway. But her point is loud and clear, so he really has no choice.

"Fine. From the beginning?" he asks. She nods in response, pulling her fingers away from her phone, out of her pocket to curl them around her waist again. She takes a couple steps back, slow, making the shadows swallow her slowly until she's leaning back against the wall, comfortable and ready to hear a good—he hopes—story. "There's a couple reasons, but it all started when I was really young."

"I mother was an actress, always was, even when I was just a little boy. It wasn't the best job to support a family, though. Sometimes, when things were really tough, she couldn't really afford to pay babysitters, so she'd bring me to the theatre with her." He doesn't tell these stories often, doesn't recount the stories of his days as a young boy, backstage with over dramatic actresses, much less under the pressure he's under now. So he lets his eyes drift closed, memories playing like videos behind his eyelids, swirling, coming to life from the depths of his mind. And the pressure fades.

"The women there, all much like my mother, they all loved a good tragedy. Often, that was the kind of play they would act in. It just...got to them. They would cry over them all the time, walk off stage with tears streaming down their cheeks because they were so passionate about what they did, so involved in the story that the tragedy, death and loss and grief, really got to them.

Of course, I was just a little boy. I didn't really care that _pour Juliet, wakes up to find her Romeo...dead. _I did, however, like the story, you know?" Her hummed reply breaks his bubble, and he opens his eyes to find hers closed. He closes his again. "I was curious, just like every other little boy. I wanted to know _why_, why they were so willing to kill themselves for each other, why everyone else was so violent.

And my mother never really shielded me from any of it. She was anything but overprotective, now as much as then. And she would just let me ask, and she'd answer my questions about all that horrible stuff that parents usually try to hide from their kids. I was the same way with Alexis, though, so I can't really judge her for it. It's really what helped get me to where I am. I always wanted the story, in those plays, when they talked about murders on the news, now, when I try to solve cases with Beckett. It's a part of me, and I definitely owe that, at least partially, to my mother," he finishes, letting his eyes drift open, meet hers.

"You know, watching those videos of you, hearing you talk about her sometimes, I'd never guess that you love your mother so much," she says, her voice holding some kind of..._humanity_...that he's never heard from her before, a pain that, although more superficial than deep, is real. Like a much lesser version of the tone Kate uses when she talks about his relationship with his mother, silently remembering her own. He silent wonders, now, if Nieman lost someone she cares about, too.

"Don't get me wrong, my mother has scarred me for _life, _but she's always loved me and been there for me. I don't tell her enough...but I am very thankful for her...I love her," the words form a lump in his throat, make his already dry mouth feel like a desert, his muscles clench, Nieman's words echoing in his head. _Your mother. He got to her._ And he swallows back a ball of emotion, blinks back tears, reminds himself that Nieman is a liar, a manipulator, that he has a story to tell.

"You want the second part, too, I assume?" he barely manages to say it without his voice cracking, without letting his emotions get the best of him. The second part of the story should be easier to tell, anyway. At least, that's what he tells himself. At least it doesn't directly involve his mother, or Alexis, or Kate. It'll bring back memories, yes, but not like that. It'll be easier. It _will _be easier. If he wants to keep his composure, it has to be.

"No story is complete without every part. You should know that, Rick." Her transition back into using his first name doesn't go unnoticed. And he realizes, with that, that he prefers it when she uses his first name like that. Those he loves most don't call him Rick very often. With his mother, it's _Richard. _With Alexis, it's _dad_. And with Kate, it's almost always _Castle. _Nieman calling him Rick, he realizes, doesn't have the same effect. He just hopes she doesn't notice, too, so she won't switch back just to hurt him even more.

"I do. I know that. Just like an extra, unnecessary part can ruin a story," he replies, silently hoping that she'll just give it up, take the hint and leave him alone because the second part is one he has to leave a few details out of. The information that comes with the second one, in _their _hands, could be detrimental, life-threatening, and sharing it could get him in a lot of trouble.

"Just tell me," she says instead of answering his silent wish, tilting her head downwards to look at him again, silver eyes piercing through him and almost making him shiver in his seat. And he still doesn't know why she wants to know, why there's such a morbid curiosity for a story that's really nothing but two childhood memories, combining to bring him to where he is today. And he doubts she reads his book—or, read them, really, because now he's starting to doubt it less—and she can't really tell anyone without jeopardizing her own safety, but he swallows thickly and prepares to tell her anyway.

"I was about ten years old." He remembers the story, remembers the moment and everything it brought on. He remembers hearing it, finding out the importance of that moment that goes far beyond what he knew for years. "My mother took me to the library, and I was looking for a book." He remembers hearing his father say almost these exact words. "And a stranger—" it's a lie, but there's no way he's letting Nieman know who his father is, not when he only found out a year and a half ago, not when he knows how dangerous people finding out can be "—came up to me and handed me a copy of Casino Royale.

I read it over and over again, I fell in love with it, with the story." It's true. He remembers flipping through the two-hundred and thirteen pages over and over again, folding the corners, the ink on the edges of the pages fading ever so slightly. He remembers reading all the other ones, the eleven James Bond novels that followed it, that told an intricate story that he, even now, doubts his capacity to match, or challenge. "That book, it made me want to become a writer," he speaks the final words softly, remembers the _only _other time he's ever spoken them.

"I read that book." It catches him off guard, the way she says it as if she's truly remembering a pleasant, yet saddening memory, like when Kate talks about her mother. And he looks up at her, sees the way she relaxes against the wall, gets lost in her own memories, in her own little world. And suddenly, with the slight tilt of her head against the musky wallpaper, he begins to wonder himself.

"What about you? Where does your fascination with murder come from?" He asks it before he can really think it through, winces as her head snaps down towards him, eyes wide, the sad serenity of the previous moment gone.

And then, in a whirl of red hair, green shirt and the click of heels, she's gone, the door slammed behind her.

* * *

It's been hours, he decides. It's been hours since he upset her, since she left so fast he could barely blink, and he hopes, _hopes _with everything in him, that she didn't go make a call, that she wasn't so upset that she made _the _call. And he regrets it, regrets asking the _stupid _question that might have cost Kate her life, because he has no doubt in his mind that, if he upset her enough, Nieman wouldn't care about sticking to her end of the deal.

Even now, though, he can't figure out why he asked it. Of course, he knows he has a history of asking the wrong questions at the wrong time, of letting his curiosity get the best of him. It's why he's a writer, why he continued to follow Kate for those first few years, why he opened her mother's case: that uncontrollable curiosity, the desire to understand the world around him. But he's learned, over the years, thanks to Kate, that sometimes it's best to just shut his mouth.

When being held hostage is _obviously _one of those times, right? Yeah, he knows that. He's been a hostage before—he fights the shudder that threatens to run down his spine at that thought—and he knew, then, how much was too much. And he hopes, wishes, that he knows now, too, that it wasn't too much, just borderline much, like all those comments he used to make towards Kate, back when they were toeing an invisible line, unspoken boundaries in their relationship.

He sighs deeply, pushes back the thoughts that have been haunting him for hours. He tries to think about something besides the fact that he upset his kidnapper and could be in great danger right now, that Kate could be in great danger, both their lives possibly at risk because he made one stupid comment, asked one stupid question. He lets his head fall back against the backrest behind him, relaxes his fingers around the armrest, tries to clear his mind as he waits for her to come back, for Tyson to show up, for _something _to happen, hopefully soon.

As if an answer to his silent prayer, he hears the sudden, slow but loud creak of the door behind him. His head jerks up, hands trying to rise from the armrests only for his wrists to once again come in contact with the rope that restrains him. The chair falls onto it's front legs, his weight pitching forward with the involuntary, a little too obvious reaction, and he hears the soft chuckle, a woman's chuckle, from where the door closes just as loudly, just as slowly. _Nieman._

He's not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing, but the air fills his lungs, expands his chest and then escapes him in a slow exhale, a sigh of relief despite his conflicting emotions, the questions running through his mind. He relaxes back into the chair slowly, feels his weight make the chair shift backwards again, the back legs hitting the tile floor with a soft thud. He presses his hands and arms down against the armrests, pulls his hands towards him slightly, just enough for the rope to rest slightly off the cuts it already left behind.

And he waits as she walks around the room, listening to the click of her heels—a sound he's grown to expect, hate despite it's now familiarity—as she walks around, remaining behind him, where he can't see her. And then she stops, the room falls quiet, she stops walking, and doesn't speak, and isn't standing in front of him, and he does all he can think to do. He turns his head to look for her, because he knows she's here, but he doesn't know what's going on, what she's doing, what she's planning.

He finds her easily, her silhouette outlined by the evening light—orange with the hues of what is undoubtedly a beautiful sunset—broken by the planks that cover the window. But she's there, the colors from outside highlighting the highlights of copper in her hair, the rest of her nothing but a black outline against the wall, against the window. And he can't stop looking at her because she's confusing him, has lost him because he was expecting teasing, taunting words, her breath in his face as she told him what she did to punish him for asking questions.

But she's standing at the window, almost perfectly still, not saying a word, not moving an inch, not even acknowledging his presence. And it's _weird, _because literally _all _she's done since he woke up in this dark room and uncomfortable chair is acknowledge him, taunt him, make sure he knows how much danger he and everyone he loves is in. And now she's not. No, she's staring out the window like this is some scene from a totally cliche movie, like the main character of a romance movie who is deciding whether or not she should give up her demons to be with the love of her life by watching the rain hit the window.

She's not a character in a romance movie, though. Nieman is definitely not that totally cliche character, the kind that Alexis would love reading about just because she loves knowing that love prevails, likes to think that that's how it always is. He likes to think that, too. But now is so not the time for that, not when he's in a position where love seemingly has a big chance at losing the battle against the evil that is Nieman, that is Tyson. And he can do nothing but sit here and hope she'll do _something_, because he is so not in the mood to put up with this.

Her sigh is soft, but loud all the same. In the quiet of the room, it's all he hears, and he takes it as something, something to think about, to analyze, to help him figure out what in the world is going on.

It sounds sad. She sounds sad. And he hopes with everything in him that that means that Kate is okay, because killing her, having something more to hold over his head, to break his heart with would not have Nieman being all sad and contemplative as she stares out the window. He has nothing, though, nothing but the hope that he can truly cross out that possibility, because he has no idea why Nieman is acting this way. And he feels the paranoia well within him, the fear, because sociopaths are _never _like this unless they have something up their sleeve. And then she speaks:

"Do you really want to know?" It's so soft he doubts he heard her right, and he just keeps staring at her silhouette against the window, waiting for something else to happen, for her to speak again so he can know whether or not he heard her right. And she does. "Do you really want to know...where..._this..._came from?" He's not sure what _this _is, but he assumes it has something to do with how they last parted, how she left in a blur because he asked where she got her fascination with murder and..._oh_.

"I asked, didn't I?" he answers with a question, unsure of what she wants to hear, what she'll do if he says the wrong thing. So he leaves the answer up to her, leaves whether or not she'll tell him in her hands, because really, he doesn't care enough to risk his life, to risk Kate's. But if she wants to tell him, he'll take that over her taunts and threats and knowing smirks any day, over her stories about how his family died, about how they'll kill Kate. Yeah, he'll listen to any answer she might have, as long as he doesn't have to listen to _that._

She turns suddenly, the red curls of her hair rising from where they flow over her shoulders, drift in the wind she creates before landing at her back again, almost perfectly, in that inexplicable way that Kate's always do. And she's still just a silhouette, but he can practically feel the mood change, sadness replaced by anger, contemplativeness replaced by a shallow sense of entitlement. And he swallows, trying to keep the sound to a minimum.

"Do you want to know?" she asks again, her voice sharper, holding more bite, demanding as if she's interrogating him, like Gates when he upsets her.

He exhales slowly, digs his fingernails into the rotting wood beneath his hands, hopes honesty will win him some points as he answers: "Yes."

She exhales slowly, and just like that the room in calm again, but not really. The anger fades. The bite, the entitlement, the sharpness of her emotions is all gone. But the sadness returns, fills the room as she deflates, her shoulders visibly falling, even though he can see nothing but her silhouette. And she turns away again, back to the window, and he sees a flash of pale skin as she reaches up to run her fingers along one of the boards that blocks the view of outside as if remembering something. He waits.

"My parents. They died." He fights back a gasp—because from the minute he first met her, he never imagined _that _coming out of her mouth, never mind being here to hear it—and barely manages to swallow it back. And he's not sure how to feel, what to think, because he remembers so clearly how upset Kate gets when she talks about her mother, how he feels the grief, the pain radiating off her. Nieman, though, is clearly sad, but it's different, she lost both her parents, and she doesn't seem half as upset as Kate ever is, ever has been.

"They were on a business trip...in New York. Well, my dad was on a business trip. My mom would always go with him. They hated being apart." He tries to picture it, Kelly Nieman's parents so in love that they followed each other on business trips, left their daughter back home...wherever home was. But he can't, can't imagine it at all, his lack of personal experience mixed with the image of Kelly Nieman, the knowledge that, unlike her parents, she is unable to feel love forbidding any images from coming to his mind. "They were strangled, in the alley next to their hotel.

The killer was never caught." He remembers when he said those very words to Kate, his prediction on that very first day way too close to true, but he never predicted something like this with Nieman, not when they first met in her office, not when the lyrics to 'We'll Meet Again' were echoing in the silence of the loft, not when her face haunted his nightmares. With Kate, he can feel it, her pain. With Nieman, there's normally not a hint of it. And, of course, she's a sociopath, but _still. _

"The cop...he said that my dad was the target, that my mom was a victim of opportunity. But then he said that my the killer..._enjoyed _killing my mom more. And then he asked me if I knew anyone who would have wanted to kill them," she continues, crossing her arms over her chest, her voice suddenly lighter, as if she likes this part of the story, likes knowing the killer enjoyed it. He can do nothing but stare, in awe that someone can feel so little over their own parents' death.

"I was fifteen. They put me into foster care, until I moved to New York for university when I was eighteen," she continues, her body still facing away from him, shaking her head ever so slightly. "My social workers said I would have nightmares, that I had to let myself grieve, but I didn't, I couldn't. Sure, I missed them, but I missed my life more, being able to do whatever I wanted. I almost didn't care that they were gone. And that's when I knew."

_And that's when I knew, _that I was a sociopath goes unsaid, and he doubts she'd use those exact words but that what he hears, that's what she means.

"They were strangled?" he asks, instead of commenting on everything else she just said. She turns from the window, eyes narrow and accusing, shining in the darkening room. The curls of her hair flutter again, over her shoulders and then resting perfectly, copper gleaming in the dark orange light. Her arms remain crossed over her chest, and she takes a step towards him.

"You know who else strangles his victims?" He knows he might regret this, but his mind is working and sending words to his mouth without really thinking it through, the cogs working together to finish the puzzle, tell a story that would be great on paper. And she takes another step towards him, a flash of confusion crossing her features before they flood with recognition, and his mouth is moving again, without his consent. "What did your mom look like, Nieman? Was she blonde, beautiful?"

He sees the pain of betrayal cross her features at that, knows that his description, albeit vague, was right. Her arms fall, hang at her sides, and her fingers curl into tight fists that dig into her thighs and he watches as she looks down at the ground, as she lifts the toes of her left foot from the tiled floor and balances on her stiletto, takes a deep breath. And then she looks back up at him, and all signs of pain are gone, replaced with a rock hard wall, an emotionless facade.

"He wouldn't do that," she spits, her voice holding more bite than he expected, more anger, more regret, and he knows she doesn't completely believe that herself. And he should stop, he knows that, feels the tingle of regret beginning to appear at the bottom of his spine, the weight of it in his stomach. He's too deep in it now, though, and he's already in enough trouble, and there's no stopping now.

"Why not? He's a psychopath, Nieman. In fact, he probably enjoyed it so much that that's why he went to you. He wanted to see you, because it thrills him to kill, and you were his first real victim's daughter. You were the person he hurt, at least in his mind." He swallows. "But you aren't the victim. No, you want to help him, because you are just as crazy as he is. You don't miss them, and he feels no regret, but there's a reason he went to _you_, out of all the plastic surgeons in New York."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she says, less angry, less vengeful. She sees his point. She's beginning to believe it was Tyson, and he feels the pieces of this puzzle falling into place one by one, the perfect story playing out, and he only wishes this were one of his books instead of reality.

"But I do. I study psychopathic behaviors. They get off on causing people pain. That's probably why he keeps you around, makes you feel like he _cares, _because seeing you, the person left behind because of his crimes, is the only way he can feel pleasure. You, and planning to hurt others, that's how he gets off, isn't it?" She nods almost imperceptibly, but he sees it, knows that she believes him now, and wonders what going to happen.

"He killed them?"

She barely gets it out before all hell breaks loose, the door slamming open with a bang, but no creak. Heavy footsteps resound in the small room, echo off the walls as both he and Nieman still, frozen on the spot, watching a very angry Tyson walks in. Fear wells within him, a heavy weight in his gut that joins the one of regret, a tingle that runs down his spine and makes him shudder, his life flashing before his eyes as he sees the serial killer, the figure of his nightmares, walk in, pale skin and big hands and light brown hair, light flooding the room from the hallway to which the door leads.

He expects Tyson to come for him, to punish him for putting the pieces together, for telling the totally awesome yet completely frightening story behind all of this, from Tyson's spree to his kidnapping and it's all beginning to make sense, and that's all because of him. But Tyson walks right by him, a flash of black fabric and skin and a rush of anger that makes him shudder again because, yeah, Tyson is definitely _angry. _The collected serial killer whose plans always go perfectly just had his plan messed up, his pleasure taken away, and he's _mad._

He watches from his seat, still as a statue, unable to move even if he wanted to, as Nieman takes a step back, mumbles something that he doesn't quite hear, but assumes is her apologizing, telling him she forgives him, begging for her life or _something_. But Tyson doesn't take it, reaches out and closes his hand around Nieman's arm, and Nieman might be crazy and might have hurt him, but all he can think is that she's in a lot of trouble, and with that, he could be in even more.

Tyson's second hand comes up, wraps around the base of her neck from behind, fingers curling through her hair as he yanks her against him, turns her around with a flick of his wrist so her back is to his chest and his fingers are wrapped around the front of her neck and he knows, _knows _that Nieman is going to die, that Tyson is going to kill her.

The last thing he sees, though, is the white flash of a rope hanging from Tyson's belt, and his final words—whether there for him or Nieman, he's not sure—echo of the walls with the same anger, the same bit, the same _evil _tone as they had when he first said them.

"_You'll regret this!"_

* * *

**And there you have it, the _actual _chapter 12. I already have chapter 13 and 14 practically written, so updates shouldn't take too long. Anyone have any guesses on what the lead is, now? Let me know what you think.**


	13. Chapter 13

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

It's strange, so strange, walking into a different precinct in a different city, seeing unfamiliar detectives and uniform officers and different name plates and a different set up, a cheap, monkey-peed-in-battery-acid-coffee machine and a murder board with handwriting that isn't her own. It's really strange, like she's walking into some alternate dimension where the twelfth has been taken over by new people, by strangers, and her world is turned upside down, her partner no longer standing at her side.

It makes her feel subconscious, too, since she's still wearing a baggy hoodie and a pair of leggings, her hair is a tangled mess on her head and she's wearing running shoes instead of stilettoes. She crosses her arms over her chest, swallows thickly as Espo pushes her forward just enough for the elevator doors to close behind her—she hadn't even realized she has stopped walking—and she stumbles forward slightly, loses her footing before catching it again, yelping softly in surprise, letting her eyes slip closed in embarrassment as all eyes suddenly land on her.

She hears Espo mumble an apology behind her, soft but almost loud in the pure silence of the room. The Chicago PD's 18th precinct is rather empty, five o'clock well passed and the few detectives on the evening shift are pretty much sitting around talking—despite the fact that she _knows_ they have an open case—waiting for a call to come in because in Chicago, like in New York, a day never goes by without _someone _being killed. She closes her eyes tightly at that thought, holds back tears as she silently hopes that that someone isn't her fiance, not tonight, not after what they already know.

She opens them again at the sound of movement, the rustling of fabric, the rolling of office chair wheels against the wooden floor. Gates takes a step forward next to her as one of the detectives—a man with curly blonde hair and dark brown eyes—pushes himself up from his seat and walks over to them. She sees the moment his eyes drop to her Gates' hip, sees his eyes widen as he spots the badge she knows Gates brought with her—she silently wishes she brought hers, even though it would probably look totally out of place with her current outfit—and then he looks back up.

She doesn't say a word as he reaches out to shake Gates' hand, smiling at them a little too widely for her taste, not that he's supposed to know that she's falling apart inside because yes, they have a lead, but no, it doesn't mean anything good for Castle. And the sooner he knows what's going on, the sooner they can solve this murder, track down Tyson and hopefully find Castle alive and well, and she doesn't want them to stand around and exchange pleasantries because she's feeling anything but pleasure right now, and it probably radiates off her, as contagious as the common cold.

Gates is calm, civil, and though she's usually the one introducing herself first when she's out with her team, she's really glad she doesn't have to this time. She's pretty sure she would instantly make detective I'm-too-happy-to-be-at-work-as-a-homicide-detective hate her, because there's no way she would be able to manage to soft smile that Gates is, the simple introduction of herself and her team. So she stares at the ground, waits to either be addressed or for their group to move, focuses on the wood of the Chicago PD's 18th precinct's floor to keep her mind from running wild.

It, surprisingly enough, didn't take all that much for her team to convince her that they had to let the local police department help them, that there was no more putting it off, keeping it just between her team. _Kate, they have ressources far better than ours, and jurisdiction, and now they have more forensic evidence than we will ever find online. We have to tell them, _had said Ryan, and she had stared at the computer screen, at the face that lit up the screen, her heart dropping to her stomach, a lump of fear forming in her throat and didn't respond.

Of course, they took her lack of response as denial, and Esposito had spoken up next: _We'll make sure they don't bring in the FBI. You can be pretty intimidating when you're angry._ His attempt at humor had come up short, everyone just staring at him because it so _wasn't _the time to be joking. But she had looked away from the screen, up at him, Lanie's hand landing on her shoulder like a silent _he's right, Kate, _and she had nodded. _Okay. We'll let them help. What precinct is this at?_

And now they're here, and she's uncomfortable, to say the least, standing in a strange precinct with a group of detectives that are all staring at them, wearing what she would normally wear to bed and it's _awkward. _For her it is, at least. Everyone else seems fine, shaking the detective's hand and introducing themselves, _Captain Gates, Detective Esposito, Detective Ryan, Dr. Lanie Parish. _And then she's the only one left, and a large hand is being waved in front of her, obstructing her vision of the swirls in the wooden floor, forcing her to look up and face the detective who has the power to both make her day or ruin all their hard work.

"Detective Bangs," he introduces himself, thrusting his hand a little more into her personal space, smiling a little to brightly, flicking messy blonde curls out of his face with a jerk of his head that reminds her of a teenage boy. Even Ryan, kind and gentle, has a more jaded outlook on the world. Hell, even Castle does, because when she looks up into Bangs' brown eyes, she doesn't see a hint of pain, of sorrow, of 'I've seen way too much for my own good', and she hates it, because this guy is a _homicide _detective, but the attitude he has reminds her of a worker at a fast food restaurant.

"Detective Beckett," she mutters in return, reaches out to shake his hand quickly before dropping her arm back to her own side, his hand falling from her personal space as he does the same. His eyes, though, stay locked on her, scan up and down the length of her body, land on the sneakers she's wearing, the hoodie that is _way _too big for her, and his brow quirks upwards, a question gleaming in his eyes. A question she doesn't plan on answering.

It strangely, _almost_ reminds her of those first few months with Castle, the annoying, childish attitude that detective Bangs seems to have reminds her of the one Castle showed off happily before the seriousness of murder got to him, the seriousness of her and her team and the things they deal with daily. Silently, letting her eyes fall back to the floor, she wonders how long detective Bangs has been a cop, guesses that he got promoted to detective recently enough because he just...he's young and naive, and after just a couple years of seeing what she's seen, she lost any hint of _that_ that she ever held.

An awkwardness falls over them as the silence drags on for a little too long. She has a feeling, from the way she can sense Espo's eyes on her, that they expect her to say something else, even though they _know _how hard it is for her to stay calm, standing up as straight and proud as possible as everything that _this _means settles on her shoulders, on her chest. Whether they're waiting for it or not, the heaviness there tells her she's not going to speak, to explain. She came, that's her part, for now. She'll help them decode any leads, figure out what happened, but explaining is not going to happen if she wants to keep her dignity.

Without saying a word, she presses her toes against the floor, twists them against the hardwood below them as if squishing a cigarette butt, stares at her own foot as she waits for _someone _to say another word, even if it's detective Bangs in his happy tone that only makes her feel worse.

Another detective, one who is still sitting at the desks with the others, seems to notice, because the sound of a chair rolling echoes through the otherwise silent bullpen again, makes her look up as he gets out of his seat. This detective is wearing a suit and tie, like Ryan does daily. He's older than Bangs, older than her. His head is shaved bald, his shoulders broad, his build muscular, his badge perched on his hip. He looks more...professional...than detective Bangs, a little more buttoned-down and by the books, a little more like the kind of cop she is.

As he walks up to them, his gaze travels across the group as if he's silently trying to figure out what's going on. She feels his eyes linger on her for a little longer than the others, swallows thickly, hoping he won't ask her any questions because she's suddenly struck by how much detective Bangs reminds her of Castle, and this second detective reminds her of herself and that makes memories of their first few months together rise in her memory, a lump forming in her throat and she's positive she couldn't speak if she tried.

Instead, though, he just holds out his hand. "Detective Beckett? Nice to meet you. I'm detective Lee," he introduces himself, smiling at her almost knowingly. She silently wonders if he recognizes her from when she arrested Bracken. He seems to. Then he looks away, shakes hands with the boys and Lanie and then captain Gates. "What can we help you with?"

Gates answers almost immediately: "Could we speak somewhere more private, detective Lee?" She silently thanks her, pulls the corner of her lip between her teeth as Lee's eyes travel from Gates, across the group, to his partner—she assumes—and then back to Gates. Her she feels her heart begin to sink as his brows furrow slightly, his arms crossing over his chest almost defensively, silently asking them why they can't just talk, explain why the NYPD is showing up unannounced as evening fades into night. She doesn't blame him. She questions it when the feds show up _announced, _with good reason. Gates, however, seems unfazed. "We have information on a case you guys are working on."

Detective Lee drops his arms to his sides, nods slowly as he exhales softly. Detective Bangs, next to him, furrows his brow as if he thinks they're lying, his lips curving up in a _are you serious? _sort of way. She looks away from him, her mind already made up. Bangs is worse than Castle, even way back when he was a childish writer getting on her nerves and killing her patience _every single day._ This is worse, this light-hearted disbelieving attitude. So she looks back at Lee, follows Gates as she follows him off towards their break room.

Lee and Bangs take a seat in the two armchairs in the room, leaving the small loveseat for the rest of them. She's not surprised when Lanie and Ryan practically push her to sit down. She doesn't fight either, her thoughts elsewhere as she takes in the room that is just a little too similar to the one at the Twelfth. She swallows back the memories, blinks back the tears and presses herself as close to the armrest as she can get, trying to leave as much room as possible to her left, trying to disappear.

Lanie takes the seat next to her, leaving some room left at the far end of the small couch, but the others all stay standing. Espo is leaning over the back of the couch. She feels his hand reach down and land on her shoulder, her eyes drifting closed as she takes the comfort he's offering, relaxes back against the cushion behind her and forces her eyes open. He's looking down at her, Lanie looking over at her, along with Ryan from where he's leaning against the right armrest of the loveseat. She smiles sheepishly—well, tries to—in attempt to assure them that's she's okay.

She is. She really is. They finally have a lead, and she's better now than she has been in two days. It's just...overwhelming...and scary, because a lead means they might find him, they're just a little bit closer, but she _knows _from experience that she might not like what they find. This lead...it's an odd one, one she definitely wasn't expecting, one she never even considered the possibility of until now, and she's not sure what it means, what it means for Castle.

"So, what can we do for you?" asks detective Lee again, drawing her attention back to him. She looks up, presses her palm into her thighs, forces herself to take a deep breath. Gates looks over at her, silently asking her if she's okay. She looks back up at her, nods slowly before looking back at the curious Chicago PD detectives.

"The Jane Doe, the one that just came in, red hair, strangled?" she asks, making sure they knows _exactly _who she's talking about. "Her name is Kelly Nieman, and we know who killed her."

* * *

She waits, stares out the window of the fourth floor at the buildings nearby that light up the Chicago street. There's a clothing shop, it's sign lit up despite the one in the door's window that clearly reads 'CLOSED'. And then there's a chinese food shop—she's still amazed by how you can find one anywhere—that brings back one memory too many, so she avoids it. And worse, there's a coffee shop that she saw in her peripheral vision before looking away quickly, her breath hitching in her chest, her lower lip being pulled between her teeth subconsciously as she looked the other way.

She stares at the clothing shop, the dark windows that hide the interior, the reflection of the lights from the precinct reflecting in the them. And then she lets her eyes drift up to the empty sky—Chicago, like New York, a city much too bright to let the stars shine. The moon is invisible from her angle, but she knows it's there, somewhere. Night is falling, darkness consuming the city, and the sky leaves her with her thoughts, worries, and the only hope she has: that they're not too late.

She blinks, snapping her head back at the sudden sound of the door opening. Lanie had gone down to fill the M.E. in on their limited knowledge of Nieman, the boys and Gates had left to fill them in on the situation in a little more detail then they were able to provide with her in the room. And she hates it, hates feeling so useless, hates being the grieving—but not really because she refuses to believe that he is...gone—fiancee, the compromised one on the team because she _loves _him. Yet here she is, staring out the window like she's from a movie, conflicted, alone, sad and staring up at the sky wistfully, as if wishing upon an invisible star will make everything all better. But it won't.

Earlier, when they first started filling Lee and Bangs in on the situation, Bangs had mentioned casually that, if he was kidnapped by a serial _killer, _their chances of finding him alive were _pretty much gone, right?_ Needless to say, that didn't go over well. She had practically screamed at him: _He's not dead!_ And then she had cried, burying her face in the armrest at her right, imagining Castle laying on the ground with a bruise around his neck, blue in the face, his life taken from him because she didn't save him, she wasn't fast enough. And that's when they left, Lee mumbling something about: _I'm sure I heard that name before. Nieman._

She watched them through the blinds at first, the way Ryan and Espo would shake their heads violently, seriously, when Bangs said something...almost _every _time he said something. Gates had been talking with Lee, her brow furrowed in a way that made her stomach church with nerves, had her looking for the nearest garbage can just in case the baby decided that that was just a little too much. It was when they all turned to their computers, Gates and Lee disappearing in direction of what she assumes is the captain's office, and Lanie was already downstairs.

Now, though, in the otherwise empty break room's doorway, is an man who must be at least twenty years her elder. Like detective Lee, he's bald, but his eyes are dark and deep-set in a way that, unlike Bangs', says _I've seen way too much._ His smile is slight, but brightens when he sees her. Dressed in a suit and tie, his badge is clearly on display, and she can easily read the word 'CAPTAIN' from where she's standing. She smiles back at him shyly, walks away from the window to introduce herself, only to find that she doesn't have to.

"Detective Beckett? You know, when Lee said you were here, I didn't really believe him. It's a pleasure to meet you," he says, holding his hand out for her to take. She smiles at the ground before looking back up, still not sure on whether she likes or hates the attention arresting Bracken has gotten her from her fellow law enforcement officers. She's leaning more towards hating it, though, because she never wanted to catch him for the recognition, but sometimes, when she's doubting herself—like today—it's good to hear.

She reaches out and takes his hand, feels the callouses that years of life have left on his palm. She wonders, silently, if hers will be like that one day, her skin a little too thick, her eyes a little too sad. She swallows thickly at that, pulls her hand away from his slowly, subtly—she hopes—glances down at her stomach, reminds herself that no matter what happens, she now has something, _someone _to keep her young, happy, to give her a picture of innocence when her job is filled with anything but. She can't help the small hint of a smile that comes across her face despite the situation.

"Captain Morgan. Lee said you had...information about a case that related to your own...special investigation," he says, and she notices his thick Chicago accent, making his words sound slightly slurred to her Manhattan ears, but she understands easily, glances to the side to avoid his gaze as she nods slowly, waits for his onslaught of question. But it never comes. "Don't worry, detective, we'll find Jerry Tyson and your fiance." And, for some reason, even though she only just met the man, she believes him.

* * *

She follows captain Morgan into the bullpen, watches as he makes the two other detectives whose names she doesn't know go back to work before turning to Lee, Bangs and her team. Lanie is back upstairs, hand resting on the back of Esposito's chair, which he stole from a nearby, vacant desk. Her best friend looks up at her before walking away from the computer to come stand next to her. Her gentle gaze asks if she's okay. She hopes hers says she is, but she can't be sure.

Detective Lee, sitting next to Ryan, rolls away from his desk to turn to his captain, smiling respectfully before turning back to the screen, typing a few things before pulling up the picture of Nieman, laying on the ME's slab downstairs, skin even paler than usual, eyes closed, a dark purple bruise forming around her neck, the texture of rope visible in the discoloration. It's not the first time she's seen the picture. It's the same picture that suddenly popped up on the CPD's website when Espo refreshed the page one last time, the one that had her heart dropping to her toes because she was scared, because she was nervous, because they had a lead.

She remembers the way the thoughts had rushed through her, the fear pulsed through her veins when she first saw the picture, the face lighting up the laptop's screen so unmistakably the one of the woman that has haunted her nightmares since she suddenly went missing, leaving nothing but a pen and a USB stick in her wake. She remembers the relief that had washed over her, her heart so eternally thankful that it was her face—that it _is _her face—and not her fiance's that is pale with death, lighting up computer screens, her mind reminding her that he wasn't—_isn't_—safe yet.

But there had been more fear, because she's studied psychopathic partnerships, dominant/submissive partners who go around committing murders, kidnapping people together. She knows how they work, knows that Tyson was the dominant partner and Nieman was the submissive one. She also knows that Tyson is a psychopath, while Nieman was a sociopath. And, as a cop who has studied both behaviors, she _knows _that a psychopath is much more dangerous than a sociopath, that Castle was much safer in Nieman's hands than he will ever be in Tyson's.

She swallows thickly, pushes those thoughts back, looks away from the screen and up at captain Morgan, sees the way his brow furrows as he regards the picture, takes in the face that stares back up at him. Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, she realizes why she trusts him so easily. In an odd way, he reminds her of Montgomery, the way he is obviously close with his team, the way he's involved with the job. She trusted Montgomery with her life. Somehow, she trusts captain Morgan with Castle's life as much as she's ever trusted anyone with it. She's never truly trusted herself with it, though, so that's not saying all that much.

"Whoever killed her was real mad," says captain Morgan, motioning to picture as Lee closes it, turns his seat to face the group. Ryan does the same, as do Bangs and Espo. "You can see the extra bruising on her neck. He uses a rope to kill her, but he used his hand first." They all just nod slowly, trusting the captain's judgement. She guesses that the others noticed that, too, knows that Lanie did. Lanie never misses anything like that. "You say you know who killed her?"

She nods, wringing her own hands. "Yes, sir. That is unmistakably the work of Jerry Tyson, more commonly known as 3XK. Plus, she was his partner. We believe she assisted him in kidnapping—" He nods before she can finish, and she thanks him with the widest smile she can manage as thoughts of Castle come to mind, images of the flaming car in the ditch, the yells of the Hamptons PD' cops saying that there was a body an echo that won't stop.

"A serial killer? No wonder she looks so familiar, must have seen her somewhere, right?" he asks, and she nods slowly, remembering when they sent out Tyson and Nieman's pictures to various police departments across the country, warning them that he confessed to being the serial killer known as 3XK and that Kelly Nieman was believed to be his partner.

But detective Lee speaks up. "Actually, Sir. Her name sounded familiar. I think I've heard you say it before," he says, crossing his legs, leaning back in his seat, his hands resting behind his head. She turns to captain Morgan, her brow furrowing as she remembers Lee's mumbles as he left the break room earlier. _I'm sure I heard that name before. Nieman._ "Uh, Kelly Nieman?"

Instantly, captain Morgan's face pales, the fact that he knows who Kelly Nieman is blatantly obvious, making all of them just stare, waiting for an answer. But he turns his back to them, runs his hands over his forehead, pulling his skin tight as they all watch, confusion sinking in at his obviously emotional reaction to the name, his body tense. They stay silent, the rest of them as they watch, him until he turns back to them, his face home to a look of defeat that even detectives Lee and Bangs seem taken aback by.

"It can't be. At least, not the one I knew. Kelly Nieman, she was from around here. She died twenty years ago," he explains, motioning to the computer screen with a flick of his wrist, his eyes falling to the ground before he looks back up at her. She can't stand the apology in his eyes, it reminds her off the look in Montgomery's eyes when he called Castle into the hangar, her last sight of him before he died.

Nieman is an alias, or a name change or _something_, she realizes suddenly. Kelly Nieman, the one they know and hate, that's not her given name, like Richard Edgar Castle isn't Castle's given name. She changed it, and that explains why there's no record of her prior to when she was eighteen and enrolled in NYU. It's all falling into place, the pieces of this complicated puzzle that even she and Castle and the rest of their team's combined efforts have yet to solve.

"Maybe there's a connection," says Gates from where she's standing, now next to Ryan. "There's a reason Nieman—" she motions to the screen, making sure they all know she's talking about their Nieman, the one that died today "—came here, to Chicago." It makes sense, she thinks, looking back down at the screen, at the white as paper face that illuminates it. Nieman and Tyson came to Chicago for a reason, and, since the beginning, she's assumed that coming here was Tyson's idea. But what if it was Nieman's?

"Kelly Nieman, how old was she when she died?" she asks, turning to captain Morgan.

"Uh, twelve," he answers, hesitating only slightly. That case...it had an impact of him. He remembers it clearly. "We… She drowned in the lake behind her family's estate. People suspected foul play, 'cause she was captain of her swim team. Can't say I didn't, but we never got any proof. The only person with her was her best friend. Poor girl, we tried to talk to her, but she was traumatized," he explains, shaking his head slowly, staring at the ground as he finishes.

"You guys never got a statement from her?" she asks, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, remembering when her mom died, all the questions she wasn't asked, knowing now that you're supposed to ask them every time. She asks them almost daily—_Do you know of enemies he might have had? Has anyone ever expressed a desire to hurt him?_—but she can only imagine how hard they are to answer. Well, not anymore. She answered them for herself when she found out the man in the car wasn't Castle, but still.

"Nah… After a little while, the hype died down. We couldn't get anything, so we set it aside, filed her death as accidental," he answers with a shrug, looking back up at her almost sheepishly, as if he knows it wasn't _accidental, _just like Raglan knew her mother's murder wasn't _random gang violence. _But he didn't do anything, and her faith in him falls.

"What was her name, the best friend? Do you have it in a file or something? Can we find a picture?" she asks, turning to detective Lee, watching as he types in _Nieman, Kelly_, in the search bar of the CPD's database, waits for the results to pop up.

But captain Morgan speaks before they do. "Her name was Kayla. Kayla Harkins. Sad story that one has, too. Parents died, murdered on a business trip to the Big Apple, when she was fifteen. Put into foster care, ran away on her eighteenth birthday, never heard from again," he says, his voice soft and pained. Not only did this case affect him, but he kept tabs, he was invested. Those are always the worst.

She turns back to detective Lee when he clears his throat to get their attention. Both she and captain Morgan, along with everyone else, turn to the picture of the twelve-year-old girl that lights up the computer screen. The young girl has grey eyes and copper hair, which is pulled back in a ponytail, her arm draped over the shoulders of a blue-eyed blonde, Kelly Nieman...the _real _Kelly Nieman. And she knows, when she looks at Kayla's eyes, the way they don't shine with joy, with love, with friendliness. She knows, and she hates to say it, but that her. That's the same girl as the woman that haunts her at night.

"Where did she live before her parents died?" she asks, turning to captain Morgan.

"On their family estate on the outskirts of town. It's pretty vacant out there. Those two girls, they were neighbors. When her parents died, the estate was handed down to her, though she legally had no control over it until her eighteenth birthday," he explains, his words so clear, the story inscripted in his memory to remain there forever.

"That's her. Kayla ran away to New York, took her best friend's name and lived her life as Kelly Nieman for fourteen years," she concludes, checking with her own team to confirm that they're on the same page. At their nod, she turns back to detective Lee, suddenly unable to meet captain Morgan's eyes. "Do we have an address?"

* * *

**So, what do you guys think? Will they find Castle? Will he be alive, dead, injured? Loved it? Hated it? Let me know. Also, although it was fairly obvious, I have to give credit to southerngirl1 for guessing the lead.**


	14. Chapter 14

_**We Won't Ever Give Up.**_

* * *

She hits the red button to undo her seatbelt, lets it slip back into place as Lanie reaches for her wrist across the backseat of detective Lee's cruiser. She freezes, turns to her best friend and nods, Lanie releasing her wrist at the silent confirmation that she'll _stay. _In the front seat, Gates and detective Lee check their guns, the click of weapons being loaded, the soft sound of metal rubbing against the fabric of the holsters on each hip. Even from where she sits, she can see the way that Gate's palm rests on the butt of the foreign weapon, Lee's spare piece.

Her team didn't bring their guns. Gates and the boys brought their badges, but they had to get through airline security quickly and easily, and cops or not, since 9/11, security was so strict—rightfully so—and they knew they would eventually bring the Chicago PD into their investigation, it just wasn't worth the time, the struggle. So, when they decided that their best chance was to raid the Harkins' estate, hoping that they were right, that Tyson hadn't moved on yet, Lee, Bangs and captain Morgan had all agreed to lend Espo, Ryan and Gates their spare guns, so everyone was armed.

Well, that was after she explained that, even though she really wanted to be there, to know what was happening when it was happening, there was no way she could be right there to raid the house with them. They asked if it was because she was compromised. She told them that had never stopped her before, reminding them that she investigated her mother's murder for years, extremely compromised, extremely invested and in a great amount of danger. _No, _she had said. _I might be compromised, but that never stops me. This time, I'm...pregnant._

She remembers, as she hears the soft tap of the plastic of her seat belt hit the plastic, interior wall of the car, the sheer shock that had crossed the three men's faces, the way Lanie's eyes had fallen, her own filled with tears. The words, she hadn't spoken them since she told the boys and Gates back at Gates' house. The hours after that had been filled with investigation, looking into leads, and a sleepless, thought-consumed flight. She had thought about the baby, yeah, what would happen if things took a turn for the worse, if her child would have to grow up without a father, but saying it out loud—_I'm pregnant_—makes it so much more real.

Captain Morgan had rested his hand on her shoulder, the contact oddly soothing despite the fact that he was practically a total stranger—a total stranger who reminded her of the man that was like a second father figure to her, whose investment in his job reminds her of herself. She had looked up at him, wiped the tears from her cheeks with the side of her hand, and he had once again promised her that they would find him, they would find Castle. Again, she believed him.

She opens her eyes again, the rest of the memory nothing but a blur of passing around guns and coming up with a plan, she and Lanie watching from the sidelines as four detectives and two police captains prepared to find her fiance, all breaking protocol, all fighting for Castle. It was Gates, oddly, that turned to her. _You're not staying here, are you, detective? I know you're pregnant, but I also know that this is tearing you apart, _she had asked. _Can I come?_ she had asked in return, Lanie cutting her off with a warning, the single syllable of her own name. _I'll stay in the car. Just, please? If you find him, I want to see him as soon as possible. _Gates and agreed, as had captain Morgan and then Lanie agreed to wait in the car with her.

And here she is, pulling her legs up onto the back seat of the car, burying her face into the foul smelling material of the seat, her eyes drifting closed to fight off any temptation as she hears the click of the opening doors, the rustling of feet on the ground as Lee and Gates exit the car. She wraps her arms around her knees, digs her nails into her skin through the thin material of her leggings, forces her lungs to take in a deep breath and exhale it just as slowly.

He could be right there, less than a mile away, sitting in the huge house that belongs to Kelly Nieman—correction: to _Kayla Harkins_—and all she can think about it the fact that he might be dead, buried somewhere on the large piece of land, his body lifeless on the floor of the building. He might be alive, right there, _so close, _and she has to sit here, and she'll do it willingly because he might be dead, and this baby, _their baby_, might be all she has left, but still. He could be alive. He could be right there. He could be so close. She could see him again, in only _minutes. _It's more overwhelming than she expected it to be.

"Kate?" Lanie speaks the single syllable of her name, a question this time, a hand reaching across the back seat to cradle her knee. It makes her eyes slip open again, her lip still pulled between her teeth, her gaze shy, tentative, embarrassed as she meets the questioning but supportive, dark brown eyes on her best friend. Her own hands slip into the pocket of her sweater, thumb digging into her palm as they meet in the middle, tears stinging behind her eyes as she fights them back.

It's so hard, staying behind like this, knowing that if he's alive, she won't be the first one to see him. And if he's dead...she doesn't want to think about that, but she hates that there's a possibility that he left without her being able to say goodbye, the cold and darkness consuming him. She hates that he could have been alone when he died, without her or Alexis or even Martha, alone with the man who killed him. But she refuses to think that he's dead, stays uncharacteristically optimistic. It's the only thing keeping her in her seat.

Her mind flashes back to the freezer, the air so cold around them that it created fog in the small room, his body cold, yet warm behind her, her love for him undeniable as she came so close to dying in his arms. _Thank you, for being there, _she had said, all alone with only him to hear it, her spoken thanks, words so true, holding so much, holding everything she wanted to say, but was too weak to do so. _Always, _he had answered, voice shaky from the cold, his grip around her tightening as much as it could. And she remembers the effort she put into telling him, right there, right then, dying in his embrace—_I just want you to know how much I..._—but the world had gone black two words, two syllables too soon.

But he promised her something that day, a promise they came too close to breaking too many times over the years, but they've kept it. _Always. _An unspoken _I love you_ in every time they say it. _Always. _The exact word she was going to tell him when she stood in front of him at the altar, hands in his, tears in her eyes, her dreams finally coming true, her life finally _good. Always. _A promise that, if he is dead, if he did die alone, she failed to keep. '_Til death do us part. _

She lets out a shaky breath, lets the final line of the traditional vows echo in her mind, off the walls of her skull, down to her heart, which stutters with them. '_Til death do us part. _So close. They came so close to making that promise, words unspoken, but understood by the words in their handwritten vows. But _what if? _What if death did them part just a little too soon? A few hours later, had the accident never happened, they would have made that promise, a promise they've managed to keep despite having never made it before, a promise that he would be there for her and she would be there for him. _Partners._

She doesn't even realize she started crying until the seat dips next to her, hand coming off her knee to wrap around her back, pulling her into an awkward embrace that reminds her of the way a mother holds their child. Oh how she wishes her mother could be here to hold her through this, her always so soft, wise and comforting words in her ear. She needs that, needs _her. _She needs him. _Why is everyone she needs gone?_

She tries to relax into Lanie, to let her best friend comfort her. Tears are rolling steadily down her cheeks, her throat aching from having cried so much in the past two days, her chest aching from that and so much more. Her mind keeps reminding her of one thing: she kept the promise they never got to make, possibly broke the one they spoke multiple times. Her body remains tense with that thought, her heart stuttering and skipping a beat in the worst of ways every single time her mind loops past the word _never, _a silent prayer from her soul that never is the wrong word. That it's just _not yet._

She buries her face into the valley between her own two knees, feels Lanie retreat from behind her, a hand staying on her back, the awkward and somehow not at all soothing hug coming to an end. She once again collapses against the seat of the car, her hands fisting in the material of the sweater, pressing against her stomach, her only _hope, _her baby. And the tears just keep falling, the presence of Lanie's hand on her back fading to nothing—well, nothing she's aware of—as everything else just takes over.

This is the moment of truth. He could be in there, dead or alive. They could have been wrong, their search needing to be continued until they do find him, dead or alive. She could lose him. After bullets and bombs and freezers and ice cold water, she could _lose _him, _always_ but a word that will forevermore echo in the back of her mind. Her baby could be left without a father. Alexis could be left without a father, Martha without a son. She could lose him. They could lose him, an integral part of their family, no matter how small, damaged and broken said family is, they could lose him, their family would be broken, left without one crucial, binding piece, one love that they all share, mother and daughter and almost-wife alike.

She fights to control herself, her emotions, doesn't want anyone but Lanie to see her like this—well, Castle's seen her like this before, but this is different, he's not here, this is about him—doesn't want people to know how weak and broken she really is. And her body jerks forward with a cough, her cries caught behind the lump in her throat, chocked out because the only other choice is to suffocate on them, to let them consume her until someone comes back with news, news that can potentially make this all worse...or all better.

She forces herself to take a deep breath, her chest and ribs aching and shaking as they stretch to accommodate it, her eyes drying, tears soaked up by the thin material of her leggings. She sniffles, exhales again, forces herself to not choke or cough or lose herself in her emotions again, to not let her thoughts and memories get the best of her. Her world might fall apart today, the one person that was always there for her might be gone. But he might be alive. They might still be a family, her and him and Alexis and Martha and her dad and this baby. He might be alive. Things might get better. They have to get better, because she's not sure she will be able to handle it if they get worse.

* * *

"Kate?" Lanie asks again, the hand on her back pulling away, falling to rest on her knee again. She looks back up, sees the worry that swirls in her friends eyes, the apprehension, the questions, the _was bringing her the right decision?_ She doesn't have an answer, really, but she knows from the ache in her heart, the hole in it, and the conflicting parts of her mind that she would be breaking down at the Chicago PD's eighteenth precinct as much as she is here, in the back of detective Lee's car.

"I'm...okay," she manages, hoping that her eyes match her answer, that she doesn't look too pitiful and broken and at a loss for words that can even begin to describe the fear she's experiencing right now. Her knees are still pressed to her chest, her hands still locked between her thighs and her stomach, fingers intertwined with her own. Her fingers fill the gaps where his should be, and it almost makes her start crying again. _Almost._

Lanie doesn't believe her. She sees it, the slight shake of her head, the _no, your not, _that she doesn't dare say out loud, but it's in the way her hand tightens around her knee, her eyes fall the the grey carpet of the car. And then she looks back up, gaze more sure, determined and filled with love, the love that is shared by their little precinct family, another family that will lose and integral part if he is gone. But he's not gone, she tells herself, tries to convince herself. She wishes she could.

"It will be okay, Kate," says the ME, her grip on her knee tightening again before loosening completely, her hand falling to the seat between them. "No matter what happens, it will be okay. We'll all be there for you, and you have your dad and Alexis and Martha. Kate, it will be okay." She's not sure if Lanie's trying to convince her or herself, or maybe both of them, but she nods slowly, her mind not quite made up. She remembers how hard it was being in DC without him, and he was always just a phone call away. If he dies, though...things can't be _okay._

But she nods anyway, feels her heart ache as she does so because it might not be true. But it might be true, too. And, _God, _she hates not knowing if her life will fall apart around her, or if pieces will start falling back into place again. She hates not knowing what they'll find, not being able to see it first, to fight the battle alongside them, the battle for her fiance, for her life, for her love. She _hates _it, feeling so helpless, so weak and broken and alone. She's been alone before. She was fine before. But that was before she knew what it felt like to be loved unconditionally, to have _him. _

"It will be, Kate. I can't… It can't not be. It has to be. It will be," Lanie speaks again, and this time she's sure that her best friend is trying to convince the two of them. But she has a skeptical mind, a damaged heart, both combined turning her into a complete pessimist, her experience, everything she's seen and been through, it's all too much for her to just convince herself that it will be okay. If he's gone, it will never completely, truly be okay. No one—not even Lanie—will ever be able to convince her otherwise, no matter what.

She shakes her head no this time, buries her face into her knees and lets it consume her, the fear, for just a second before she pushes it back, swallows back the lump it leaves behind, blinks back the burn of tears in her eyes. The car falls silent, the sound of Lanie's steady breathing, hers unsteady, the only thing left. The anticipation is thick as she continues to shake her head no into the dark valley of her knees, the protective wall they put between her and the world, her and the day that could ruin her life. _May 13th, 2014. _

She forces that date back, the echo of it fading slowly as she shakes her head no again, tries to shake that thought away, tries to shake everything away. _No, _he can't be gone. _No, _she can't be alone. _No, _she can't do this alone. _No, _her baby can't grow up without a father. _No, _Alexis can't be left without a father. _No, _May 13th, 2014 can not go down on her calendar as the worst day of her life. _No, _they can't come back and tell her he's dead, he's gone. _No, _he can't be gone. _No._

And just like that, her biggest fear comes true. A gunshot, loud in the silence of the secluded estate, sounds through everywhere. And like lightning, Lanie catches her wrist and she reaches for the car door.

_No._

* * *

"Kate! You can't!" Lanie's voice is almost frantic, words spoken so quickly she can barely understand them, but she does. She just doesn't want to hear them, the door now open next to her, the cold country air swirling in the car, the frantic sounds of a fight filling the air. "You can't, Kate. You know that. Think about your baby. Think about your baby, Kate, how much you love them, how you need to protect them. Kate, you have to stay, you have to stay here!"

Tears fill her eyes instantly, no burning or stinging to blink away, no lump to swallow back. Her chest aches. Her heart breaks. And tears fall. She shakes her head again, almost violently, denying, but she's not in denial. _He can't be gone. _She gasps it out, barely audible, a mix of unintelligible vowels that she doubts Lanie can make sense of, but are like a mantra to her, a silent prayer, the deepest, most hopeful part of her soul clinging to the words as if her life depends on it. _He can't be gone. _

She digs her toes into the car floor, as if that will somehow anchor her in place. Her one hand is clenched around the handle on the car door, holding it half-closed but half-open, her instinct to run too strong to deny completely, and Lanie knows it. But her other hand has left the pocket of her sweater, slipped under it and her t-shirt to rest on her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin, the very reason she has to stay also one of the biggest reasons she needs to find him.

But it keeps her in the car, her eyes drifting closed as she leans forwards, rests her head against the passenger seat, cries. Her hand stays on her stomach, presses into her skin, clings to the reminder that she has to stay here, she has to stay safe, for her baby. _Their baby, _who is depending on her, whose survival depends on her. She reminds herself, over and over again, the sentence on a loop in her head. She doesn't know what she'd do if something happened to her baby...because of her.

A shout, a man's shout, echoes through the forest, bounces off the trees and into the car, off the walls and she whimpers. Her tears quicken, her grip tightening on the door, fingers turning white from effort, the effort it takes her to stay in the car. Lanie's hand rests on her knee, squeezes as she tenses, as if Lanie thinks that _that _will make her stay in the car. But it won't. If anything will, it's the hand on her stomach, on her baby, the reminder of their love, the reminder that there is hope, the reminder that there is love.

Lanie's voice sounds at the same time as another round of frantic screaming. "Kate, you have to stay in the car. You have to stay. Do it for your baby. Your baby, Kate, stay here for your baby, for his baby." The words have her whimpering, her body curving forward even more, her hand pressing even harder against her stomach as she buries her face in her knees, nods quickly because she _knows _she has to stay, she _knows _she has to do this...for her baby.

"My baby. Our baby. For the baby," she mumbles to herself, hearing another round of shouting from the house, focussing on her words, repeating them over and over again, mumbling them against her legs, words muffled in the space between her mouth and her thighs. Her baby. _Their baby_. She has to do it. She has to stay. For their baby. That's what he'd want, no matter what, for her to stay safe and protect their child, and she will do anything to do exactly that. She will protect her child. She has to.

"Yes, Kate. The baby. Your baby, you and Castle," says Lanie, echoing her words, running a hand along her back, pressing the heel of her palm to the base of her spine, trying to relieve the tense pressure there. "You can do it. You can stay here. You will stay here," she continues, whispering it just loud enough for both of them to hear over her cries, for her to listen to despite the fact that she can hear their battle.

It's in shouts and screams and threats that bounce off the trees, echo through the vacant forest. It's in the sound of feet running on tile, of the doors that slammed open one after the other. She knows, knows they found something, _someone. _She can only hope it's _him, _her fiance, her Castle. And maybe Tyson, too, so this can all be over. That would be great, she decides, having Bracken and Tyson both be in jail, allowing their child to live a happy, peaceful life. That would be great. That would be perfect...as long as Castle is there, too. They need to find Castle.

"My baby. Our baby. For the baby," she repeats to herself, pressing her eye sockets against her knees in a vain attempt to stop her tears. Her chest aches, her ribs and heart and lungs. Her eyes burn from tears already shed, undoubtedly red and puffy, her cheeks stained from dried tears, the salty taste of them drifting into her mouth. She presses her feet down against the floor, continues to hold the the door as tightly as possible, rubs a circle into her own stomach to remind herself to stay.

And then another gunshot goes off, loud, too loud. It snaps something in her, cuts off her words, the echo of it so loud that she can no longer hear her silent mantra, the reminder of hope, the reminder of love. And Lanie can't hold her back this time, can't catch her wrist just in the nick of time. She swings the door fully open, relaxes her toes within her running shoes and runs, runs for her life, runs for her fiance, runs for hope, towards the house that has fallen quiet.

They parked far enough away as to not raise suspicion, the car just far enough for the run to seem never ending, for it to consume her, the fear of what she might find, of _who _she mind find...and in what condition. Her stomach churns and lurches and she barely manages to swallow back the acid that threatens to rise from her stomach, digs her fingers into her lower abdomen again and silently prays, prays that everything will be _okay._

Her runs are clumsy, and she stumbles and trips over rocks and twigs that cover the messy, not at all cared for forest ground. Her tears blur her vision, her heart aching in her chest. It almost feels like the ground is breaking apart beneath her, behind her, like this is do or die and there is no going back. There _is _no going back. There is _no _going back. Whatever she finds, whatever they found, it's definitive. If he's dead, there's no more holding onto hope that he isn't. If he's alive… _God, _she hopes he's alive.

She trips over another branch, her body lurching forward, her knees landing on the ground with the rustle of leaves and the thud of her weight. Her stomach lurches with it, and she can't swallow back the burn of bile as she feels it in her throat. Her body lurches forward again, her stomach emptying itself onto the ground, her eyes squeezed shut as she continues to cry until her stomach calms, and she's left kneeling in the dirt, weak and sobbing into her palm, the flavor of her own vomit like a ghost in her mouth.

She manages, somehow, to gain enough strength to push herself back to her feet, her knees wobbly, her head spinning as she hears the sound of Espo's voice. _Stay with me. Stay with me. _Her stomach clenches again, so violently that she almost falls back to the ground with it, but she manages to run instead, her feet clumsy and uncoordinated beneath her as she runs, runs to his voice, to the silent prayer that Esposito says over and over again.

She comes to a dead halt when she sees the house, the image in front of her one that has her breath escaping her, her eyes filling with a new round of tears that she can't control, her chest jerking with a choked cough she can't hold back. Captain Morgan—the only one visible through the open front door—turns back towards her at the sound. He swallows thickly, motions for her to come closer because it's _safe, _the fight is done. Her fiance could be alive, or dead, or dying, and she can do nothing about it from over here...but she can't move, either. She's not sure she wants to know anymore.

Her nails dig into the skin of her stomach and she glances down at the ground, packed down dirt and dead leaves from years of being vacant, tree roots and branches poking out from beneath layers of earth, twined together. She swallows thickly, looks back up at captain Morgan, and nods slowly. The first step forward is slow, tentative, as if she's scared the ground in going to break underneath her. In a way, she is. The second one is faster, and then the third and the fourth until she's standing right by his side, glancing down at the scene in front of her.

The door to the house is open, allowing her to see into the house which was once a family's home, which is now a crime scene. Captain Morgan holds a flashlight in his hand, which lights up the destruction this all caused like a spotlight. She swallows thickly, feels tears well in her eyes all over again as she glances down at the ground, back into the house, and then up to meet a pair of eyes.

On the floor, splayed across the main floor and the steps that lead upstairs, lies one dead body, a gun sitting in a limp hand, a face pale from death, an angry red wound staining a chest. She swallows again, swallows back the emotion that wells within her, forms a lump in her throat, makes a single tear fall as she looks away. Inside the house, lies another body, being tended to by Ryan and Espo, a paling face hidden from her sight, but she can see the tenseness of muscles, of holding onto life. She remembers that, when the wound was in her chest instead of in this person's abdomen.

She looks back up, sees one final person, standing up straight, a gun clenched in their hand. She knows, from looking at it, that that gun fired one of the fatal bullets, and she pulls her lower lip between her teeth, looks back at the body at the foot of the stairs, at the one whose blood is staining the old tile floor, and then up at the person that looks back at her. From her lips, slips the only word she can think to say.

"Castle?"

* * *

**So, I know I like _just _updated this a couple days ago, but I figured I'd post one more chapter before the new season premieres. Anyway, enjoy that cliffhanger. :P**


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